


Au What August

by Anon_E_Miss



Series: AU August [3]
Category: Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: AU August, All of the Tropes, Child Abuse, Dubious Ethics, Extremely Dubious Consent, M/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Tropes, dragonformers, you can pry them from my cold dead hands
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-01
Updated: 2020-08-31
Packaged: 2021-03-06 01:34:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 31
Words: 100,250
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25645132
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anon_E_Miss/pseuds/Anon_E_Miss
Summary: Here we go again. I am feeling self indulgent. Behold a month of mini fics all involving Jazz and Prowl, and a lot of porn.1-7 Baffled aka Heat Fic8-15 The Dragonformers Are Back, Baby16-21 Matchsticks aka Poor Little Orphan Smokey22-28 Noble Verse Undercover AU Nonsense29-31 Doradus Continuation. Raising Bitty Blue.
Relationships: Jazz/Prowl
Series: AU August [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1861921
Comments: 959
Kudos: 296





	1. Fuck or Die

**Author's Note:**

> Day 1: Fuck or Die.
> 
> Shockwave is an unmitigated bastard and Prowl just won't let Jazz die, even if Jazz would find that preferable to the alternative.

"Jazz!" Hound hissed through gritted dental as the Empurata appeared, dragging Jazz along by a leash hook to a heavy shock collar around the Polihexian's neck.

Prowl's expression did not change but he felt no less concern for his colleague. Jazz had been under Shockwave's "care" for five mega-cycles, since he had shed his disguise as Longarm, and taken Prowl, along with the Ops team assigned as his escort, captive. Though Prowl had spent vorns the six vorns since he had enlisted with the Autobots preparing for the mega-cycle he would be captured and face interrogation, his preparations had not been called upon. Shockwave had shown no interest in him, or in the remaining members of Jazz's team. Mirage had evaded capture. Bumblebee, the rookie scout, was either dead or gravelly injured back at the crash site.

Rather than feel any relief, Prowl only felt a deep, pooling dread. Something was coming. His ATS showed him a thousand different possibilities, all of them dire. Jazz would have teased him. Not one? Not even one good scenario? No. Prowl was not an optimistic mech by rote, and his battle computer, fed by his logic processor, leaned towards fatalistic.

"You may have Prime's attack dog back," Shockwave said. "I have no further use of him."

"What have you done, Shockwave?" Hound demanded. Prowl paid no attention to the traitor who had served so high up within the Autobot ranks. The mech who had been Prime's left servo. He was focused entirely on Jazz who stood hunched over a pace behind Shockwave, at the end of the lead. There did not appear to be any damage to him. Save for the dents he had accumulated in the crash. Prowl's dread began to rise. From behind Shockwave, Jazz growled.

"I have stripped the beast of any traces of his false humanity. He know only knows his most basic instincts, his most savage programming. We shall see what use for Meister Prime has when his run burns off."

"Jazz won't hurt us." Hound insisted. "He isn't a monster."

"Oh he will. He'll take what he wants and what he needs like the beastformer he is. Or he'll burn. Either result will suit my ends. I'll return in a few mega-cycles to see what remains."

So confident in himself, the cyclops did not see Jazz coming. As he reached to unclip the lead from Jazz’s shock collar, the saboteur struck. He spun around Shockwave, and pulled the leash around Shockwave’s neck and pulled it taught. Shockwave’s single optic flickered as the electric pulses to his processor were cut off. Jazz growled down at him as he fell limp. Prowl did not know if the Decepticon was dead or alive. Lipplates still pulled back in a snarl, Jazz lifted Shockwave’s cannon arm up to the lock, and fired it. The bars of the cell disappeared, and the three Autobots contained within it jumped to their peds.

“Come on!” Jazz growled.

They did not need to be told twice. Hound left the cell first and as Jazz pointed down the hall, he took the lead. His natural position as the team’s scout. Prowl gestured for Trailbreaker to follow before he too stepped free of the cell. Before he could follow the other, Jazz grabbed his arm. He made an odd, low whine in his vocalizer and his face contorted into a grimace. Denta bared, he forced the leash into Prowl’s servo. Confused, Prowl looked down at the lead and then up to the shock collar around his friend’s neck. He reached for the clasp.

“No. Leave it,” Jazz ordered.

“Why?” Prowl asked.

“Don’t let go o’ that lead. Now let’s go!”

It felt wrong to hold the leash but they had no time to argue, and Prowl ran alongside Jazz. They found no guards, no Decepticons at all. Could Shockwave have sent them away? To keep them from interfering, or to keep them from observing? Even Decepticons might have been a bit squeamish of Shockwave’s perverse experiment. Or perhaps they would have wanted to watched, and Shockwave did not share. Whatever the reason, Hound found them a path, free of enemy combatants, and he led them into the open air. The canyon around above them echoed with thunderous booms. Jazz snarled and bowed his helm. Prowl was sympathetic. He did not enjoy the vibrations from the cacophany on his doorwings any better than Jazz would have enjoyed it in his audial horns.

Hound gestured for them to follow, verbal communication was impossible now, and Shockwave had taken their comms when he had captured them. Given he had been their commander, he had known the overrides. They ran through the din and the darkness. At first light, they found shelter in an outcrop and stopped to rest. Shockwave had raided their subspaces, left them with nothing. They were exhausted, and they were tired, and Jazz was burning up. Jazz kept his back to them as they tried to catch their ventilations. Every once in a while, Prowl heard him growl. Though they could have rested longer, their frames would have preferred it, they moved on.

They climbed over outcrops, and canyon walls but found no exit, so they ran on. When they rested again Jazz joined them, sort of. For a time he engaged in the planning, but then the rut clouded his processor and he curled into Prowl’s side, purring. Prowl and Hound shared a look as Trailbreaker looked at them, utterly lost. Neither of them explained. It was not their secret to tell. In a combination of chirolinguistics, and shouting, they disgust which way they would try to go next. They had to stay low in the canyon. If they climbed any higher they would almost certainly run into a Seeker patrol. In the end, they went right, and in the end they got nowhere quickly. When Jazz tried to cuddle into Prowl’s side this time, Prowl nudged him away, he was trying to draw a map of the paths they had tried already so they did not double back.

“Oww!” Jazz yowled.

Turning his helm quickly, thinking his friend was in pain, Prowl frowned as Jazz just stared at him, and made a soft, feline sound. Hound shook his helm, and seemed to be trying not to chuckle. If the situation had not been dire it might have been funny. They were running out of time to find help. Jazz’s originator had hacked his core programming when he had been a youngling, to save him from ever enduring a rut, or forcing another to endure it with him. There had to be a way to stop this before Jazz’s spark was sputtered out. If they could just get to a long range comm, they could contact Punch himself. Surely he could help, so long as he was not walking about as Counterpunch. An Amalgus bounty hunter had forced himself on Punch during a rut; Lockdown had even gone so far as forcibly bond their sparks so Punch could never be free of him. The trauma had split his processor in two. When he was Punch, he was an Autobot. When he was Counterpunch he was a Decepticon. Jazz loathed Lockdown, and his frametype for what had been done to his originator.

“Oww!”

“What, Jazz?” Prowl asked, sharply as he turned to face the saboteur.

“Mmrr,” Jazz purred at him. The moment Prowl looked away from him, Jazz yowled again.

“I don’t know how the Cons haven’t found us with him going off like that,” Trailbreaker said.

“It must blend in with the rest of the din,” Hound replied. Jazz yowled louder, and louder as Prowl tried to ignore him.

“Jazz!” Prowl whipped his helm around and found himself face to face with the saboteur.

Jazz rubbed his helm against Prowl’s next and let out a rumbling purr. It sounded more threatening than it did affectionate. When Prowl did not push him away, Jazz got more daring and he wrapped his arms around Prowl’s waist as he nuzzle Prowl’s nape. He was flush with Prowl’s back, and so Prowl felt the scorching heat of his frame against his back. As Jazz ground his array against Prowl’s aft, the Praxian’s optics flashed.

“Prowl?” Hound asked.

“We need to separate.”

“Sir?”

“You two will continue on, find your way out of the canyon and alert Prime to Longarm, or rather Shockwave’s deception.”

“What about you and Jazz?”

“We will ride this out in a cave, somewhere,” Prowl replied.

“Prowl, you do know what that entails?” Hound asked.

“I do.”

“What does it entail,” Trailbreaker asked.

“Never mind,” Prowl said. “Get moving, soldiers.”

“Sir?” Trailbreaker asked.

“Come on, TB,” Hound said. “Prowl. Sir. Be careful. Jazz wouldn’t... He wouldn’t want you to be hurt.”

“I will,” Prowl said. Jazz raised his helm from Prowl neck and growled over his shoulder as he clung to Prowl possessively. “Move!”

Jazz did not let up his growling until their compatriots disappeared into the darkness. When he did cease, he let out another rumbling purr, and he rubbed his chin over Prowl’s helm, shoulders and neck. Scent marking. Prowl shuddered as Jazz’s servos cover his hips and ground himself against Prowl’s back. Suddenly caught off balance, Prowl tumbled forward, and just barely saved himself from smashing his face into the dirt. As he pushed himself up onto his arms, Jazz fell over him. It felt different now, as he covered Prowl’s back, as he ground his array against Prowl’s back. Then, Prowl understood. Jazz’s spike had pressurized and it was leaving a wet trail over his aft.

“Jazz,” he squeaked. Jazz froze. Then he threw himself back, cursing viciously. “Jazz?”

“Just tie me to a fraggin’ tree, ‘n leave me, Prowl!” Jazz snarled.

“No,” Prowl said. As he righted himself, his spark returned to its normal rhythm. “We will find a cave to shelter in.”

“Leave me, Prowl.”

“No.”

“Damn ya,” Jazz growled. “Go... Just go.”

Prowl shook his helm. He stood. Afraid that Jazz might have enough sense still to bolt, he took the lead and gently urged him to follow. Jazz wrapped his servo around the lead where it connected to his collar, but with a growled curse, followed. It was unkind of Prowl to do this, to use the secrets Jazz had shared with him to his advantage. But Prowl was not kind enough to honour Jazz’s choice. Perhaps it was selfish but he wanted Jazz, needed Jazz, to live, and he would do what was necessary to see that he did. If Jazz hated him in the aftermath, Prowl thought he could bare that. They would no longer be working together, after all. When this was over, when Jazz survived and they made their way back to the Autobots, Jazz would return to Iacon and Prowl would continue on to his new post in Nova Cronum.

Jazz had only told him of his true heritage as something of a test. Each Spec Ops unit worked with tactical attachés, or they were supposed to. Jazz had been uncooperative with every tactician his unit had been assigned. After having chased off every attaché previously assigned to him, Jazz had been assigned Prowl. It had been Prowl’s first assignment after enlisting with the Autobots, his first service of any kind since being pulled from the rubble of the Temple of Justice a vorn earlier. To say Prowl had clashed with Jazz would have been an understatement. One of the saboteur’s most peculiar talents was his ability to find the single thing that annoyed an opponent the most, and then how to exploit it to his full abilities.

Jazz seemed to take particular pleasure in that gift. The mission briefs he had submitted to Prowl in the beginning, the reports, had been incomplete at best, and mocking nonsense at worse. As a mere attaché, Prowl had not possessed any veto power over the mission specs Jazz concocted, neither had he the authority to call him out when he simply threw the specs out the window from the moment he and his team of misfits stepped out into the field. Still, Prowl had tried. He had tried being patient. He had tried being reasonable. He had tried being firm. None of that had worked. Prowl had thought his self control had been limitless. Jazz had proved him wrong.

When Jazz had tossed the mission spec for the infiltration of Darkmount onto Prowl’s desk, Prowl had refused to put his stamp on it. Many missions had come away from his desk without that stamp, but this time Jazz had argued with him, and Prowl had argued right back. What had started out as a quiet disagreement had turned into a full fledged screaming match that had culminated with Prowl throwing his own desk as he had rebuked at Jazz for the ease with which he could plan to throw away his team’s lives. Jazz had countered, with an eerie calm in face with Prowl’s anger, that the potential gains from this mission outweighed any risks. Prowl had screamed. No. He had keened. The guilt he felt for the deaths of his cohort in that last stand for Praxus had bubbled over he had keened with in articulate grief and rage. This was not Iacon’s last stand. This was not the Autobots’ last stand. The faint hope of capturing the Decepticons code machine, with the mission only having an estimated chance of success of 20%, was not worth the risk of six Autobot lives.

Jazz had stood in the middle of Prowl’s destroyed office with a bemused look on his face as Prowl had screamed, and he had wanted nothing more than to punch that smirk from his face. As the remnants of his self-control had crumbled, Prowl had swung his fist. Jazz had caught it. And held it, without so much as straining one cable. With his free servo, Jazz had batted Prowl’s shoulder, and had suggested they go get a drink. Prowl’s over stressed systems had shorted, and he had crashed then and there. When he had come around, he had been in the arms of the bane of his existence. Once Prowl had gotten his barrings, Jazz had insisted they go get that drink. In the course of the evening, Jazz had coaxed Prowl into sharing what he and his enforcers had faced in Praxus’ final joors, and the truth behind what he really was, or had been. A cold construct, a tool. In response to Prowl’s revelation, Jazz had made his own. He was an Amalgus, a shapeshifting creature that had a preference for wearing Polihexian plating. His natural, or perhaps supernatural, abilities gave him an edge, and would give him an edge. The odds of this mission’s success, his odds of making it a success was considerably hire than any figure Prowl could calculate.

Prowl had demanded Jazz prove it. They had gone to Prowl’s habsuite, and Jazz had proved it, showing him a half dozen different forms and Prowl... Prowl had taken what he had learned, and recalculated the odds of success for the infiltration to 50%. Jazz had not been satisfied with the accuracy of that calculation, and they had spend the dark-cycle going over every step and every stage until they had settled on a mission spec with a predicted chance of success of 75%. Prowl would have preferred higher. Jazz would have settled for lower. It had been a compromise. It had also been a success with Jazz returning with the code machine, and without a scratch. Once they had begun to work together, the overall success rate of Jazz’s team had soared. After five vorns of success, Prowl’s transfer to Nova Cronum should not have come as much of a surprise as it had. The promotion should have been less bitter to Prowl. Having not explanation for what he was feeling, Prowl had dismissed the bitterness, accepted the promotion and chosen his replacement. Trailbreaker had been a natural choice, perhaps a better fit than Prowl had been. He had already been a good friend towards Hound and Mirage, and the force field generator he possessed had the potential to be a deciding factor in future missions. As a show of faith, perhaps for Prowl’s benefit, Jazz had invited him to join them as the team escorted Prowl to his new post.

Commander Longarm had announced he had a meeting in Nova Cronum and had assigned himself to the transport, rather than schedule a second. Prowl had not had any dealings with the Commander of Special Operations’ commander, assigned from the mega-cycle he had received his assignment to Jazz’s team. His decision to share their transport had not been terribly suspicious. When the transport had suddenly veered into a steep dive, Trailbreaker had extended his force field over what would no be his team, Prowl and Commander Longarm. Thanks to that force field, when the shuttle had come to rest in the Sonic Canyons, they had all been unharmed. But Trailbreaker’s shield had not extended quite far enough and when they had taken stock, they had found Bumblebee, who had been acting as copilot near dead, but the pilot, Roadgrabber completely unharmed.

It had only been when Prowl had knelt next to Bumblebee to see to his injuries, that he had suddenly felt any suspicion of the pilot or his fellow passenger. It had been immediately obvious to him that Bumblebee’s injuries had not occurred in the crash. As Prowl had demanded an explanation of the pilot, Longarm revealed who he really was, and who the pilot really was. Mirage had been gone in a flash, and Prowl did not fault the spy for his escape. In fact, he would have praised him for it he had been around to hear it. Someone needed to get glyph to Iacon that Longarm was in fact Shockwave. Jazz had put up a tremendous fight when Shockwave had elected to leave a severely damaged Bumblebee behind. The fight had been futile. Their shuttle had crashed exactly where Shockwave had intended. A battalion of tanks had been laying in wait.

A cave appeared before them like a gift from Primus. His tactical systems castigated him for his faith in this higher power. The priests who had so diligently woven _faith_ into the fibre of his spark could not have known how much it would clash with the tactician systems they had installed in his processor. They had been disappointed by his tendency to crash when faced with logic conflicts and surprises. They had not known that the code they had installed in him had created this fault. As the devotees they had been they had forgiven his flaw and prayed for the wisdom to create a better acolyte in the future. They had never known how flawed he had been. Prowl had been the first Praxian enforcer to ever question _why_. _Why_ am I? _What_ is I? They had given him a mechahood they had never intended. When they had called for the enforcers to stand down when faced with the Decepticon invaders, Prowl had obeyed, they had all obeyed. But as Prowl had come to understand what it was the Decepticons had intended for his state, he had rebelled. He had faced the priests who had constructed his frame and defied them. The defiance had come too late. Praxus had fallen.

“Ain’t touchin’ ya,” Jazz hissed as Prowl led him into the cave.

There was a finality to it. He had made his choice, and made peace with it. Unfortunately for Jazz, Prowl was a stubborn mech. His failure to act in time to save Praxus had stayed with him, and he to had also made peace with his choice. Prowl dropped the lead, and Jazz darted to the back of the cave. His frame was shuddering with the strain of resisting. Jazz growled a warning at Prowl as he approached. The growl morphed into an almost ominous purr. At Jazz’s peds, Prowl knelt, and held his arms, and legs apart. He watched Jazz’s olfactory ridge twitch and his upper lipplate curl in disgust as he scented the air. Jazz dug his digits into his own knees with denting force. Mechanisms who had decried Jazz’s lack of professionalism and self-control would have been flabbergasted here, Jazz had far more self-control than any mechanism, Prowl included, would have given him credit for.

“You are being ridiculous, Jazz,” Prowl scolded his friend, and inched closer.

“Rrr,” Jazz whined as he turned his face to the wall. His frame shuddered again. Wave after wave of head radiated from his frame. Need was so thick in his field it was suffocating.

Jazz would not look at him. Desperation bled into Prowl’s ATS. He could not fail this time. His defiance could not have come too late this time. As soon as the idea flowed from his battle computer, Prowl acted. He stood up. Prowl watched Jazz’s profile. His optics traced his friend’s set mandible, and watched the beads of condensation run down his face. This time, Prowl would not fail. He would not lose Jazz. His first friend. Piece by piece, Prowl removed his armour. When he had come online for the first time he had been wearing this very armour. It had not matched the cohort he had onlined with. He had been different from them. They had been the long arm of the priests’ law. Prowl had been the processor meant to direct them. Until the mega-cycle Prowl had woken in Iacon, frame bare to Ratchet’s tools, he had never known nakedness. Now he was standing in front of his first friend, stripping every last piece of armour from his frame. Prowl shuddered. He felt exposed, and vulnerable. Jazz never looked at him.

Prowl dropped to his knees. With a sigh carrying more fondness in it than frustration, he took Jazz’s servo, brought it to his sealed spark and held it there with both servos. Jazz kept his helm turned as he whined pitifully. It was almost painful to hold his servo. His core temperature was far beyond safe levels. Prowl had to break Jazz’s will, before Jazz lost his life. Though he was unable to keep his face from flushing, Prowl did manage to keep from trembling. Jazz trembled though as he fought his core programming. From the five vorns Prowl had spent working with this mech, Prowl knew Jazz would fight to his last breath. But so would Prowl. For both their sakes, Prowl would not lose. He dropped Jazz’s servo, let him slowly draw it back. As Jazz seemed to sag, he turned his helm, expression bleak. Prowl grabbed both of Jazz’s knees and forced them apart before he shot between them, moving just fast enough to wedge himself between them before Jazz could close them again. He cradled Jazz’s helm in his servos and held it to his sealed spark. Jazz’s hot ventilations fell over his chassis and Prowl waited. Jazz dragged curled, dangerous digits up his back and held him, Prowl did not move as his colleague, his friend took a long intake, took in his scent. He growled low in this throat. Prowl released Jazz’s helm and took a shaky intake as he tried to think of what else he could do.

Jazz threw him to the ground before he could finish his thought. As his doorwings crashed against the cell floor Prowl gasped in surprise and pain. He pushed himself up, or started to but then Jazz was over him, pinning him, growling menacingly. Prowl went limp. He held his servos open, above his helm, and tried to show Jazz he was not a threat. This was not what he had planned. Above him, Jazz growled again, and Prowl hoped he had not made a grave miscalculation. Jazz curled his servos over Prowl’s wrists and glowered down at him. His visor was gone, and Prowl could only stare up at his brilliant white optics, glowing with the intensity of a star. As he let out another rumbling growl, Jazz arched his back. His armour clattered against the ground as it fell away. Prowl gasped as he watched his friend’s features change. Sharp armour segments grew from his protoform, covering his back. His audial horns lengthened into sharp points and curved back. Survival protocols called for Prowl to resist, but he did not so much as flex a cable. Jazz bowed his helm to Prowl’s chassis and the tactician wondered if the truth of what Jazz was might have been even worse than the stories Jazz had told.

“Jazz?” He whispered as his friend’s vocalizer let out another rumble as he nuzzled Prowl’s sealed spark. “Jazz?”

“Mmrr.”

Was that rumble a growl or a purr? Prowl could not answer the question. Jazz released his arms and raked his digits over Prowl’s chassis as he continued to take in his scent. His breath scorched Prowl’s protoform. His digits plucked at vulnerable cables.. He felt Jazz’s rough glossa drag over his sealed spark and he shuddered. An innocent in the ways of pleasure, Prowl did not quite know how to process this sensation or if this even was pleasure. As Jazz crawled down his frame the fear that he might consume Prowl’s spark faded. When he crouched between Prowl’s legs and rubbed his face against Prowl array, Prowl realized he had accomplished what he set out to do. He shivered. Was that anxiety or anticipation. Scorching as it had felt against his sealed spark, Jazz’s ventilations seared Prowl’s slit. His outer rim was drawn tight, and his anterior node recessed between them at the top of his valve. Why had they built him with this equipment, Prowl had wondered as he had investigated his first rape. His cohort had never been meant seek pleasure. They had been constructed to serve a higher purpose. Just as Prowl was wondering what Jazz intended to do here, the feral mech dragged his rough glossa over his rim.

“Ah!”

Prowl’s knee knocked Jazz’s helm as he tried to shuffle away, the sharp sensation of that rough glossa on his plating shocking him. But Jazz did not let him get away. He growled against Prowl’s valve and caught his legs behind his knees and pulled them apart. Jazz held Prowl open and licked again. Unable to escape his hold or his glossa, Prowl tried to quiet his sharp ventilations. Was this pleasure? Something coiled in his array, Prowl had never experienced this before. It only tightened as Jazz nuzzled his valve. His olfactory ridge ground against Prowl’s anterior node and Prowl’s intakes whined. Jazz seemed to like the sound as he nuzzled Prowl again, gravelly, rumbling purr making Prowl’s insides clench. That had to be pleasure. He dug his digits into the ground to keep himself from pushing Jazz away, or pinning him in place. His own temperature was sky rocketing now and Prowl’s intakes came in rapid, uneven pants.

Over a course of a bream, maybe longer, Jazz wore away at Prowl’s valve’s external seal with firm strokes of his glossa. Prowl felt it stretch as Jazz nuzzled his face between his valve rim, it was no longer a tightly closed, inconspicuous slit. As Jazz growled? Purred? Into between Prowl’s legs Prowl felt his seal tear. It did not hurt, there were no sensory nodes within the polymer membrane. Ventilating roughly, Jazz dropped Prowl’s legs, and lifted his lower body up by his aft, and held his array to his mouth. Prowl gasped as he felt the first probe of Jazz’s glossa as it breached the tear in his seal, and moaned as Jazz’s raked his glossa over sensory nodes never stimulated before. What remained of Prowl’s seal wore away as Jazz ate him alive. Prowl shivered as Jazz opened up his valve with quick, deep plunges of his glossa. It seemed to reach to his very cervical node. His legs kicked fretfully in the air as that tension in his lower midsection became a tight coil as Jazz slurped between his legs. He writhed helplessly as Jazz ate him alive.

“Jazz!” Prowl cried as the tension burst and charge crackled over his frame. Jazz purred against Prowl’s tender rim as he slurped down the lubricants which rushed from Prowl’s valve.

When Prowl stopped writhing and lay limp in his hold, Jazz dropped him back to the ground, and slowly crawled up Prowl’s prone frame. Prowl shivered as Jazz’s hot frame covered his. His legs were pinned open by Jazz’s powerful hips. His friend ground himself between his legs. He felt Jazz’s spike rub along his dilated rim, and bump against his anterior node. It felt threatening, even as it sparked pleasure in his circuits, and Prowl froze. Jazz did it again. He rubbed his spike over Prowl’s wet rim, growling the whole time. Prowl wheezed, only just stopping himself from whining. Was this anticipation? Or was this fear? Jazz’s licking and sucking had made his valve’s external component hyper sensitive while his internal ones clenched over nothing. As Jazz’s rutted again the tip of his valve slipped into place between Prowl’s engorged rim. It felt sharp and ominous and far too broad to fit.

Jazz growled a rough purr and pinned Prowl to the dirt floor and rolled his hips. With that strong flex, Jazz’s spike pushed against the outer aperture of Prowl’s valve. Prowl strained against him. It was too big. So much too big to ever fit without tearing him. Out of some foreign reflex, Prowl opened his legs further, and he tried to go limp, to save himself from one of those injuries he had seen. There was an audible pop when he was breached. His vision whited out as Jazz speared him. Against his neck, Jazz rumbled. The rapid stretch stung badly as segment were forced apart by something both longer, thicker and sharper than they were prepared for cleaved them apart. When his vision returned, Jazz’s white optics stared down at his. They burned into him. Jazz bowed his helm into Prowl’s neck and drove his spike to the hilt. Prowl dug his digits into Jazz’s shoulders. The stretch was too much, too fast, but Jazz was already withdrawing. Somehow, Prowl’s valve opened up for him, somehow he did not tear.

Jazz buried himself between Prowl’s thighs against, crashing their arrays together with a wet clang. Sharp ridges drove through Prowl’s lining, catching every sensory node as he withdrew. Prowl’s jaw fell open and his optics glowed bright unseeing. Even as the ache of the stretch remained, pleasure bloomed between Prowl’s thighs as his sensory nodes were roughly stimulated by each segment of Jazz’s spike. With each deep, denting thrust, Prowl’s doorwings dragged across the floor and the pain made embracing the violent pleasure impossible. To spare himself this pain, Prowl blinded his sensory wings and surrendered to Jazz. Deep inside himself, Prowl felt his gestational port being battered each time Jazz speared him with his spike. Sharp, painful pleasure sent sparks across his optics and Prowl writhed under his first friend. Prowl did not know if he was trying to get away, or if he was trying to get closer. His back bowed as he overloaded, and his valve clamped over Jazz’s spike as lubricants squelched out from around the saboteur’s spike.

As Prowl groaned with over stimulation, Jazz pushed off Prowl’s neck, pushed up, purring with satisfaction. As he braced himself on his servos Jazz ground their arrays together and Prowl moaned helplessly. Jazz reached for Prowl’s legs and held them up, held Prowl open as he returned to spiking him with unnaturally strong strokes of his hips. Folded in half, Prowl could only moan as he stared up at Jazz, looking like some kind of fantastical beast, as he never let up his relentless pace. With his overload had come greater lubrication and the raised plating of Jazz’s spike rubbed more smoothly over his nodes. Loose-limbed and vents flared as they tried to cycle in more air to cool him, Prowl moaned under Jazz as the other mech spiked him with increasing force and speed. Prowl wailed as he was thrown into an overload stronger than the last, and Jazz still did not stop. When Prowl’s vestigial claws scraped over Jazz’s back, Jazz hissed, and then growled a purr. As Prowl moaned, processor already blown, beneath him, Jazz forced their chassis together. The heat of Jazz’s spark burned against Prowl’s spark’s seal. It melted into vapour under the heat of Jazz’s spark, as it did Jazz pinched Prowl’s chevron and tilted his helm back, made him look. Prowl held his burning white optics as Jazz’s spark burrowed into his, and consumed him.

Mine. Prowl’s processor reset as his spark merged with Jazz’s. The surge of emotion, and heat consumed him. He hardly heard Jazz’s victorious roar. But it echoed through him as Jazz drove deeper into him, both in spark and in frame. Senses battered by all fronts, Prowl drowned in all that was Jazz. The demanding “mine” echoed through the merge. Prowl did not deny it. Jazz’s servos grabbed Prowl’s aft and forced their arrays together and he bit down on Prowl’s shoulder. At the head of Prowl’s valve, the seal over his gestational port gave way as Jazz growled as he spilled his transfluids directly inside. Within the merge, Jazz burned, Prowl burned and the surge that followed knocked Prowl offline.

When he became aware a few kliks later, Jazz was crouched over him, whining. His spark was still bare, Prowl looked down, his spark was bare, he looked down further. Shimmering pink fluid leaked from his puffy, gaping rim. He shuddered as his insides tensed. Prowl’s frame heaved with the force of his ventilations. When he looked up from his own valve, Prowl saw Jazz’s jutting out from between his strong thighs; it was covered by Prowl’s pink lubricants. Prowl only just had the strength to draw his legs together, and to shuffle backwards, scraping his back against the ground. He was exhausted, his insides ached, he could not take another interface so quickly. Jazz growled as he caught Prowl’s ankles and pulled his legs apart.

“Jazz, please,” Prowl begged. “Give me a moment. Please”

Jazz did not listen. He growled a purr and crouched between Prowl’s legs against. Prowl gasped as Jazz buried his face between his legs and took a long intake. Smelling him, Prowl realized. _Smelling them._ As Jazz’s rough glossa dragged over Prowl’s raw outer rim the tactician’s vents whine. He was oversensitive, and the coarse texture of Jazz’s glossa burned. The whine turned into a moan as Jazz’s lapped at his valve. His friend’s oral lubricants soothed his tender plating. Holding Prowl open, Jazz buried his glossa inside Prowl, growling a purr as he twisted his glossa along Prowl’s lining. There was no silencing the cries or groans that broke over Prowl’s vocalizer. Jazz’s glossa was so long it reached to the back of Prowl’s valve. There was no place within Prowl that Jazz did not reach. His vocalizer clicked off as he overload again, before Jazz finally pulled off of him. Prowl could only look up at him, optics dim with exhaution

“Mmrr,” Jazz purred as he licked his lipplates and Prowl’s valve clenched weakly. While his frame ached, Prowl’s valve no longer throbbed. How had he gone five vorns not knowing Jazz’s oral lubricants had healing properties. But then, Jazz had never licked him before.

“I suppose that explains how your team rarely ever comes back with life threatening damage,” Prowl said as his optics dim. His back aches. Though his doorwing sensors remained muted, laying on them still puts painful pressure on the joints. But he was too exhausted to move.

“Rrr,” Jazz rumbled at him and nuzzled his shoulder. Prowl tried to brush him away. He needed to recharge. After he had regained his energy he would try to figure out why Jazz was still acting like a mechanimal. Why his frame was still so hot. “Mmrr!”

“Enough. Jazz. Enough,” Prowl said. “Let me recharge for a joor. Please.”

“Ooow!” Jazz yowled as he tugged at Prowl, and pulled him, resisting, upright.

“Jazz...” Prowl groaned, despairing. There was no reasoning with Jazz at the best of times. In his current state of processor, Jazz was even more unreasonable.

His complaint died on his glossa because as soon as he sitting up, Jazz was nudging him back down, but this time onto his side. Prowl sighed. The dirt floor was not a comfortable berth but laying on his side was a vast improvement to his back. Jazz settled behind him, making those gruff purrs the entire time, and nuzzled his helm into Prowl’s lower back. Though the heat radiate off Jazz remained worrying, it still suffused Prowl’s frame and his exhausted frame drifted off into recharge.

When he woke in the light-cycle, Prowl was alone. He slowly sat up, and looked around.  Where had Jazz gone? Mind he have run off to face what remained of his rut alone? Prowl frowned, and climbed quickly to his peds. As he stood, his valve gave a throb between his legs, and he reached and touched himself. He was tender, sensitive but Prowl would not describe what remained as pain. Slowly he shuffled towards the cave entrance. Jazz appeared in the opening, carrying the greyed carcass of a mechanimal. Prowl stared; Jazz moved like a predator, and yet there was a sway to his hips that was entirely Jazz. As Jazz grumbled low in his engine Prowl retreated to the back of the cave and slowly sat. Jazz dropped the carcass at his peds.

“I do not know what you expect me to do with this,” Prowl said. “I have only ever consumed processed energon.”

Jazz purred. With his claws he ripped open the beast and exposed its energon lines as the energon oozed from the punctured line, Jazz hunched over it and drank. He sat up after only a nanoklik and pushed the carcass towards Prowl. Dear Primus. Prowl’s fuel tank rolled, but at the same time it pinched with hunger.  What other choice did he have? If he was going to take care of Jazz, Prowl needed to fuel. Shoulders hunching, Prowl lowered his helm to the gaping wound in the beast’s side and drank. The energon was still warm. Jazz had not made the kill too long ago. It tasted different than the energon Prowl had always known. It was richer, the consistency thicker. Though the idea of drinking energon from what had once been a living being was disturbing, Prowl drank. Afraid to take everything, Prowl stopped before he was fuel and pushed the carcass to Jazz, but Jazz refused it. Only after Prowl had drunk his fill did Jazz take anymore. Even then, he drank only a little. Perhaps the rut affected his appetite.

Not only that appetite. Jazz discarded the drained husk of a mechanimal and returned to Prowl, purring huskily. Prowl knew what he wanted. It was what Prowl was here for. Before Prowl could lay back to allow Jazz to have his way with him, Jazz pulled him to him instead. His friend’s rumbling purr made his plating tingle. Jazz ventilations were hot on his neck.  His servos slid down Prowl’s back, one slid over his aft, and between his legs. Long, sharp digits light stroked his still tender rim. Prowl moaned as Jazz teased his opening. The growl against his audio sounded almost sounded like a chuckle. Soon, Prowl’s valve was clenching on nothing, and dripping lubricants all over Jazz’s lap. As Prowl panted in Jazz’s audial horn, Jazz lifted him up, lowered him down so his valve hovered over his spike. Prowl was moaning even before Jazz lowered him down, before his valve opened  so  easily and swallowed up the thick spike. There was still a stretch, but it was easier now, and Prowl clung to Jazz’s shoulders as he was bounced on his lap, gasping each time Jazz buried himself to the hilt up inside of him. It took very little time before Prowl overload the first time. Or the second. When Jazz’s spark surged to meet his, Prowl did not pull away. 

So on the mega-cycles went. Jazz held Prowl’s legs open as he rutted between them. Prowl lay half on his side, half on his chassis, his doorwings stretched out behind him as Jazz held one of his legs straight up against his, and spiked him deep and hard. Processor addled, Prowl watched with dazed fascination as Jazz’s thick, vicious looking spike punched into him, stretching him so wide. From his frame maintenance, Prowl remembered how small and neat his sealed valve had looked. Now, as lubricants gushed out from around Jazz’s spike as he withdrew, and sank deep again, Prowl valve stretched impossibly wide. It seemed so impossible, Prowl could not comprehend how he could take something so large. His rim was taunt around Jazz’s spike, and it was slick with pink lubricants. His anterior node glowed bright between them like a jewel upon a crown. When Jazz ground his palm over it, Prowl’s saw stars. Prowl’s optics reset and he moaned shakily as his strung out frame’s charge rose for what felt like the hundredth time. Jazz did not need to worry about him escaping. Even lifting his helm off his arm seems like too great and exertion and Prowl settled on watching Jazz frag him, transfixed as that spike so easily buried itself in him. Each roll of Jazz’s hips brought him to the hilt within Prowl. Somehow Prowl’s frame found the energy to overload. Jazz purred over him as he spilled his transfluids directly into Prowl’s gestation tank.

“Jazz, I cannot!” Prowl cried, begging for a reprieve, as Jazz bowed over his frame. He certain his frame could not take another overload but Jazz growled at him. Held him. Filled him. Prowl overloaded. It never stopped.

They merged again, and still again. Though Prowl begged for a reprieve again, Jazz was lost to the rut and he fragged Prowl on his servos and knees, on his back with his legs in the air, splayed out on the floor. When Prowl fell offline, he onlined to Jazz nuzzling him. When he tried to ignore him, Jazz yowled. He did not leave the cave again in search of fuel. Every waking nanoklik was spent in feverish interface. His frame was still hot against Prowl’s back, not blisteringly so, but Prowl might have adapted to the temperature. Had it only been four mega-cycles? Had it been longer? Laying face down on the ground, his arms were stretched out in front of him, and his face rested on his arm, Prowl’s chassis was buffeted against the floor as Jazz held his aft up in the air and filled him with each stroke. With every deep plunge he breached Prowl’s gestation tank. Prowl moaned, optics dim. He did not think his tank could hold another drop. Yet as growled a purr, his spike jetted pulse after pulse of thick transfluids into Prowl’s packed tank. Jazz was set on breeding him.

That was what the rut was about, Prowl had come to realize. It was not about interfacing, it was about breeding. Jazz had merged with him at least a half dozen times, and had filled Prowl’s gestation tank with his transfluids, priming Prowl to bud. Would it only stop then? Would it only stop if Prowl’s spark produced an ember? Surely not. How could Jazz ever know? Even his hearing was not that finely tuned. Prowl guessed ruts lasted a certain amount of time, a certain number of overloads, he hoped. Primus he hoped it would end. He hoped Shockwave had not somehow hacked it. Unable to lift his helm from his arm, Prowl was desperate for it all to be over. Prowl’s aft was dented from Jazz’s frenzied fragging. His doorwings and back were scraped up, and his valve... It was in a real state. Jazz had not licked him, and soothed him in two mega-cycles.

This had to be coming to an end, surely but even though he had just overloaded, Jazz was fragging Prowl again, pulling his aft quickly back into his array. Laying spread open under him, Prowl moaned, and weakily cried as Jazz took what he needed. All that mattered was Jazz getting through this. As Jazz’s pace became more frenzied, and Prowl’s abused sensors were battered into flaring, Prowl knew he could not possibly overload again. His systems could not possibly manage another overload, and yet he could feel one building deep in his array. Prowl moaned helplessly as Jazz bowed over him, pulled his doorwings back and bit. Prowl screamed and as the overload crashed over him, he fell offline.


	2. Fall Out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prowl and Jazz are rescued. Special Ops takes care of their own. But sometimes bad habits come around and bite you in the aft.

“He’s coming around,” Hound said. Prowl’s helm rolled to the side as he was jostled by pedsteps. Someone was moving. Someone was carrying him.

“Prowl?” Prowl knew that voice. Mirage. They had been found. Prowl’s processor flashed back to his last memory, to losing consciousness with his aft in the air and his face in the dirt. He flinched. Someone adjusted their hold, and as they sat, cradled him gently in their lap.

“Prowl?” This time it was Hound speaking, close to his helm. Hound was holding him. “Can you hear me, Sir?”

“Yes,” Prowl replied. His voice sounded rough and foreign to his audials. His vocalizer hurt. “Jazz?”

“In stasis lock,” Trailbreaker replied from not to far away. Prowl forced his optics online and saw the junior tactician carrying Jazz, fully armoured, his protoform smoothed out, all trace of his true lineage gone. When he looked down, Prowl realized he was wearing his armour as well. Someone, one of them had dressed him while he was unconscious, after they had pulled him and Jazz apart. He shuddered.

“He needs a medic,” Prowl said. The effort of keeping his helm up was too much for him, and it drooped against Hound’s shoulder. He was so tired, and so sore.

“So do you,” Mirage declared, looking down at him.

“No!” Prowl exclaimed. He tried to jerk away from Hound but his struts were like gel and all he accomplished was a little flailing.

“No?” The spy asked, browridge raised with surprise.

“Prowl, you’re in no shape to argue,” Hound scolded.

“I only need fuel.”

“You need more than fuel,” Mirage replied, dryly, and Prowl flinched again. How had the team found them? Did they have trackers installed Prowl did not know about? Or had Trailbreaker and Hound been nearby, maybe even listening for mega-cycles.

“No medic,” Prowl said, insistent. He hoped they had not heard him begging. He prayed they had not. “Jazz cannot know. You both know what he would think.”

“Damn it, he’s right,” Mirage said, speaking not to Prowl but to his former servus. “I don’t like it, but he is.”

“Yes, but that doesn’t change the fact that Prowl here can’t so much as stand, let alone walk two steps.”

“I will manage.”

“No,” Hound said.

“We can argue more in the shuttle but we need to get going,” Mirage declared. “Jazz has shorts everywhere. Ratchet’s going to have a fit.”

“It could have been worse,” Hound said, as he carefully stood, doing his best not to jostle Prowl.

“You’re right. Without Prowl, it would have been,” Mirage agreed, Prowl flushed. “Follow me, the shuttle isn’t far.”

“I...” Prowl said.

“I’m not putting you down,” Hound said. “You. Cannot. Walk.”

“Jazz took care of me... while he could.”

“And we’ll take care of you now,” Mirage said as he looked over his shoulder. “As he would want. Let’s go.”

Hound was light on his peds. It should not have been a surprise, he was a scout after all. But he stepped lightly, and quickly, and hardly jostled Prowl as he chased Mirage through the canyon. Had it not been for the constant thunderous din of the canyon, Prowl might have recharged. As it was, Prowl did not want to recharge, he wanted to prepare. Thus prepare he did. If hacked his sensory grid, perhaps he could fool his frame into thinking he was unharmed. It seemed like a place to start. Prowl looked inward, to his code and quickly became lost. Jazz could have done this for him, or shown him how. He would not have, though. No, he would have insisted on carrying Prowl straight to Ratchet the moment he admitted to any pain. His team would know this. They would want to honour his wishes. Prowl had to convince them to see his side.

“Take the helm, Trailbreaker,” Mirage said.

“Sure.”

He might have been their friend, and their new attaché but he was not an op, more importantly, he was not Jazz’s op and not Jazz’s confident. What had Hound told him? Anything? Trailbreaker must have known what Prowl had done, what Jazz had done. Was he willing to lay the blame at Shockwave’s digits, or would he insist on more answers down the road. Prowl would entreat him to keep his peace, if it was necessary. He would make him understand none of this was Jazz’s fault. Before Trailbreaker went into the cockpit, He laid Jazz down on the floor of the small cargo hold. Mirage pulled a medkit from beneath a seat and ran the scanner over Jazz’s helm, and spark. Prowl watched with desperate anxiety. Jazz needed to be alright.

“His spark rate’s high for stasis but he’s holding,” Mirage declared. “We’ll fly to Nova Cronum, where I left Bumblebee. Iacon’s closed to air traffic. The dome’s up.”

“Megatron attacked?” Prowl asked. Hound and Trailbreaker did not appear surprised by Mirage’s announcement that the rookie lived. Mirage must have already shared the news when he had first come to retrieve them. But it was news to him. He was relieved. Jazz would be pleased.

“Seekers have been in the area,” Mirage explained. “Mostly harassing our transports. Pharma’s competent. He might even be preferable. He doesn’t know what Jazz is. He won’t look passed the processor damage.”

“If Jazz does not remember on his own, you cannot tell him,” Prowl insisted. The operatives looked at each other and grimaced.

“I don’t disagree that Jazz’s reaction would be... bad,” Mirage said. “Jazz has a pathological hatred for what he is. But we have to consider what is best for _you_.”

“I will be fine,” Prowl said. “Get me to my office and I simply stay put until I am mobile.”

“That’s your plan?” Hound asked. “Holy Pit. You’re hurt, Prowl. We need to make sure it isn’t life threatening.”

“He did not intend to do me harm.”

“But he did,” Hound said, gently. “So we need to take care of you.”

“If I see a medic, everything will be ruined. Jazz will be distraught, and that could be the best case scenario. Command could hold him accountable for his actions. Or they could fault me. Either way, one of us would be discharged.”

“Damn it,” Mirage cursed. “Hound?”

“Here’s what we do,” Hound said. “Raj, you’ll gather the supplies. I’ll give you a list of what I need. Prowl, I’m a trained medic. If you’ll permit it, I’ll examine you. If you injuries aren’t severe we’ll take care of it ourselves. But if it is, I’ll carry you to the medbay myself.”

“It does not sound like I have a choice,” Prowl said. Though they both must have seen him. They must have scene... Prowl was not need to bare himself for Hound’s optics, but for Jazz’s sake, he would.

“You do. But the alternative is I carry you straight off the transport and into the medbay. We are not going to sit back and hope for the best.”

“Fine.”

It was not fine. Prowl was not fine with any of this, but Jazz’s team were clearly not going to be swayed. They were loyal to Jazz, and more than that they knew what loyalty really meant. Protecting Jazz from what had happened would have been the obvious show of loyalty, but Jazz would have seen that as a betrayal. No. These mechanisms were truly loyal, and they would carry out what Jazz would have made his mission in his stead. With his agreement, the operatives relaxed. Mirage turned his attention to Jazz, continuing to monitor his spark rate. Hound leaned back against the wall, as he continued to hold Prowl. It was a friendly intimacy Prowl felt uncertain of but he was sore, and tired, and he did not want lay on the ground for even another nanoklik.

“I should give you a blocker,” Hound said.

“I will not be able to think,” Prowl replied. “They make me loopy.”

“We’ll take care of you,” Hound promised.

They did. Prowl stirred when Trailbreaker lowered the shuttle’s nose as it came in to land in Nova Cronum. When they came to a stop on the runway, Hound pulled his legs under himself, and started to stand. Prowl tried to put his own peds under him and the scout made a disapproving noise. But Prowl was stubborn, and he could stand. It hurt. His peds were fine, and while the cables of his upper thighs felt stiff and strained it was his valve that absolutely throbbed, and Prowl wobble as he tried to keep his balance as he shuffled his peds apart to take some of the pressure off his interface equipment. Hound took his arm and steadied him. Trailbreaker appeared from the cockpit and gently lifted Jazz from the ground. He had not so much as stirred this entire time. Prowl was terrified for him. What if it had not worked? What if they had delayed too long?

“They’ll take one look at you and pull out a stretcher,” Mirage said.

“If Hound uses his holograms, then no one need be the wiser,” Prowl replied.

“That could work,” the spy seemed begrudging to admit it.

“Why are you surprised my plan would work?” Prowl asked, feeling a little temperamental. “I am a tactician.”

“Because you don’t have any common sense,” Mirage retorted. “At least not if Jazz is involved.”

“Since we’re using my holograms,” Hound said, stopping the two mechs from snarking at each other further. Prowl’s retort turned into a startled yelp as Hound lifted him off his peds, and into his arms. “You don’t need to strain yourself.”

“Time to see if this plan of yours works,” Mirage murmured.

The plan did work. When they descended from the ramp, EMS was waiting with a gurney. Trailbreaker laid Jazz out on it, and the medical personnel raised into the base. Thunderclash stopped in front of the quartet and Prowl froze. He prayed the Greatest Autobot of All Time would not see through Hound’s facade. His new commander declared Decepticons were gathering at the very base they had escaped from, and he was taking a battalion to stomp out the threat. Prowl was ordered to assume his position. They would be debriefed later.

“We were in separate cells,” Prowl said as they gathered in his new office. Trailbreaker looked out the window as Thunderclash took off for the mountains, followed by Autobot aerial forces and at least two battalions of ground troops.

“If they look deeper?” Hound asked. Though Prowl had told him to let him down, the scout had ignored the order.

“We were in separate cells,” Prowl repeated. “You saw nothing. You heard nothing.”

“And you, Sir?” Mirage asked.

“I am fine.”

“That’s a load of scrap,” Mirage retorted. “You should see a medic. A proper medic, no offence Hound.”

“None taken.”

“We already agreed that Jazz cannot know what occurred,” Prowl countered.

“Blame it on Shockwave,” Mirage replied. “He may as well have raped you. He obviously intended for Jazz to rape one of you.”

“They will take CNA.”

“Primus, you have an answer for everything,” Mirage grumbled.

“I won’t brush anything off,” Hound promised his long time partner. “If it’s more than some chafing, I’ll take him to the medbay.”

Though Prowl volunteered his new desk for the examination, he wanted to get it over with, but Hound sneered and shook his helm. He insisted they go to Prowl’s new habsuite where Prowl could shower, and rest comfortably after the exam was over. Hound carried Prowl to his habsuite. Though they passed a number of Autobots raising this way or that, no one did more than previously salute. No one saw through Hound’s holograms. As a junior officer he had the benefit of a private shower in a small set of washracks. Prowl insisted Hound let him down, he could do this much himself. He refused to be bathed like an invalid. The scout carried him into the washracks, and gently set him down. In the same ventilation as he told Prowl to take his time, he gave a list of medical supplies to Mirage, and his former heres disappeared. Trailbreaker volunteered to collect fuel and stepped out. Leaving only Prowl and Hound in the barren habsuite.

“I’ll be right outside the door,” Hound said as he watched Prowl brace himself against the narrow stall’s wall.

“I will be fine.”

Prowl’s winced as he pushed off the wall and reached for the shower controls. Hot solvent poured over his frame and Prowl sighed. He flared his armour so the solvent could trickle through the gaps and run over his battered protoform. Though it stung the scratches on his doorwings, it was still terribly soothing. For a bream, Prowl stood, back to the spray, his servos braced on the wall. His legs were shaking. Was that exhaustion? Pain? Relief? Jazz would be alright. He had a strong spark and a strong processor, he would be fine. As his struts turned into gel, Prowl sank to the floor. He winced as his sore aft made contact with the ground. But it was hardly the worse of his aches. Optics dim, Prowl sat under the shower’s spray. After a bream, he took the washcloth Hound had left and slowly wash himself. Prowl lingered over ever inch of his armour even though it had been safely set aside during the marathon interface. He was avoiding what really needing to be done. Eventually, he could avoid it no longer, and Prowl pulled the modesty plate away from his array.

He hissed. Just exposure to the humid air was enough to make Prowl’s valve throb. Or perhaps it had just never stopped throbbing. Prowl kept himself covered with one servo as he brought another to his rim, and tried to visualize the component. Memory of watch Jazz stretch him wide over and over superimposed itself over the reality as Prowl cautiously traced the tender rim of his aching valve. Gone was the tiny, forgettable aperture. Prowl thought anyone who saw him in the future would know he had been well fragged. Could it ever revert back to that to that neat little slit? It did not seem possible to Prowl, and he shivered. He was not sorry. Prowl’s purity had been a relic of his past, and it had never mattered to _him_ in any case. When he examined his digits Prowl found no trace of energon, nor the litres of transfluids Jazz had spilled within him. They were trapped in his gestation tank. He felt so full. Prowl touched his midsection, over where that component was hidden. It felt firm. Had it always? He shuddered at the implication. His spark did not feel any different.

No. It did. It felt tender. But that made no sense. Prowl’s servo remained low on his midsection. How could he stop this? He could not kindle. There would be an investigation. Jazz would learn what had happened. He would hate himself. Prowl willed his spark not to bud. He willed the status quo to hold. The only way to train his tank was to see a medic. He could not do that. Prowl tensed with fear. He was at the mercy of his frame. Could he even kindle? As a Sigma harvested spark, was conception even possible? Maybe not? Certainly the priests would not have intended any of their enforcers to procreate. Surely the builders of cold constructs never intended for them to make their own lives when they harvested their sparks. Perhaps all Sigma sparks were neuters.

His digits lightly stroked his still swollen rim. Oh, that hurt. It was hot, but not with the pleasure he had known before. The delicate protoform was scuffed and rough. Prowl his an intake between his denta. Jazz had only fragged him strutless and raw. Prowl felt a tingle between his legs, deep within a certain aching component. While this exact experience was not one Prowl thought he wanted to repeat, but interface? Overloads? That bore revisiting. So did merging. Prowl placed a servo over his spark. And tried to decide if it ached. Something was different and Prowl whimpered with fear. Let there not be a newspark. He could not bare it. He could destroy Jazz’s life. Having merged with Jazz so many times, Jazz new his friend on a level he had not before. Prowl held this knowledge, sacred in his spark. The merges he had... not so much shared... not so much endured... but experienced with Jazz only fuelled Prowl’s conviction that Jazz had to be protected from this. Though he was not certain he would remember the mega-cycles of frantic interfacing with too much fondness, Prowl would remember the merges with something more like love.

“Are you alright, Prowl?” Hound called.

“I am finished,” Prowl replied. He closed his modesty cover over his array and grimaced. His rim was so swollen the cover pushed against it. Until it recovered Prowl would find it painful to even keep his panel closed.

There really was no point in keeping it closed for the moment, Hound would be asking him to bare it again, but Prowl felt prudish enough that he would keep it concealed until he had no choice but to give himself up for the scout’s examination. Hound appeared and offered Prowl a microfiber sheet. Prowl dried himself as best as he could before Hound gently lifted him off his peds and carried him over to the berth. Prowl winced as he was lifted. Gentle as Hound was it was still jarring, and his frame was hyper sensitive to even the slightest movement. Mirage and Trailbreaker must have reappeared at some point. Energon was sitting on the berthside table, as well as a medkit. It was a full kit, Prowl realized, not just a field kit. He wondered who Mirage had stolen it from. Cliffjumper would never recharge again if he ever learned Mirage had once been the most infamous jewel thief in Cybertronian history.

“Let’s see to those dents first,” Hound suggested and Prowl could have sighed with relief.

“I would appreciate that. I was wondering how I could explain all the bites to Thunderclash.”

Hound had gentle digits. It was surprising given how broad his servos were. One by one he healed every visible dent or scratch. Prowl had not intended to remove his armour, but Hound removed his back plate, and immediately went to work on his doorwings. As Hound urged him gently to lay down, Prowl almost ordered him to stop. His self-repair systems could resolve the dents but Hound’s gentle digits removed the armour from his aft and began work on the dents and chafed plating. Prowl buried his face in the pillow. While he was grateful for the care, it was also so terribly humiliating. If Hound teeked the humiliation, he did not comment on it. He replaced each peace of armour as soon as he was done with the protoform beneath it.

“Your doorwings are scrapped up. I’m going to apply a UV salve to lock in the repair nanites.”

“I would appreciate the help.”

“I know you’d rather I leave you alone, Prowl,” Hound said. “I know Jazz normally does it for you.”

“Jazz was the first Autobot who attempted to gain my trust.”

“He’s a remarkable mech,” Hound said as he applied a thick gel salve over Prowl’s abused doorwings, paying special attention to the edge Jazz had bitten, and set it with a UV light. It was impossible to resist the sigh as it bubbled up from his vocalizer.

“He is,” Prowl agreed.

“Thank you for saving him.”

“I did not want to lose him either.”

“I see that,” Hound said. “I want to protect him too, but if I think you _need_ a medic, I’m calling one. Whether you like it or not.”

“He was not out to hurt me,” Prowl repeated.

“No, he was out to breed you, and he went wilder than I could have imagined,” Hound sighed. “And in the end, he did hurt you, and we need to make sure you heal well. Will you lay on your back and spread your legs?”

Prowl did as Hound asked. With the nanite rich salve sealed over his doorwings, Prowl felt no pain when he laid back. In fact, with the blocker still lingering in his systems the only real pain left was between his legs. Hound put a pillow under his aft, and took some of the strain off Prowl’s legs. They the cables within his thighs were sore, but the blocker had turned their discomfort into a whisper. Burying the wave of embarrassment that rose in his spark, Prowl pulled back his modesty panel and let Hound see the state of his valve. The sooner he got this over with, the sooner he could cover himself, and keep himself that way for a while. Prowl looked up at the ceiling as Hound knelt between his legs and did a visual exam.

“That looks painful, Prowl,” Hound said, voice dripping with sympathy. “Externally, you didn’t tear but your badly chafed.”

“I will heal.”

“I don’t want to leave you like this. I can apply a nanite gel if you’re willing. I think I need to do an internal exam.”

“You were trained for this?” Prowl asked. He did not imagine the training came from the Autobots.”

“We were expected to be self-sufficient,” Hound replied. “To take care of our wounds and stand ready the next time we were given an assignment.”

“That explains why you are so close.”

“I know that no matter what Pit I end up it, Mirage will come to pull me out. The reverse is also true. The problem was we couldn’t trust anyone else. Trust was too expensive a currency. Joining the Autobots was a culture shock. But Jazz earned our trust and us. We know he would jump down Unicron’s gullet for us. He would for you too. You did for Jazz.”

“He taught me how to live.”

Hound applied a thick layer of salve over Prowl’s rim and it was enough to make Prowl’s tense frame relax. The touch was methodical and platonic. Prowl’s optics dimmed. As Hound applied the salve, Prowl’s outer rim went largely numb. They talked about their early cycles within the Autobots, and the professional detachment allowed Prowl to drift away from what was being done. He felt the pressure against his valve casing as Hound carefully opened him, and he tensed a little. It was not a pleasurable touch, but Hound’s digits were slick with artificial lubricants, and even that moisture was soothing to the abrasions within Prowl’s valve. Hound’s digits withdrew as he finished his exam but they returned, now coated in salve. Prowl’s internals quickly went numb. Hound used the manual control to close Prowl’s modesty panel. He should have tried to roll over or sit up, or something, but free from pain, Prowl’s frame was surrendering to exhaustion.

“Energon first,” Hound said, after he cleaned his servos. “Then you can recharge like the dead.”

“I am tired,” Prowl replied, and his forced his optics to brighten. He knew he needed to sit up but it took considerable for to even convince himself to lift his helm. “More tired than I’ve ever been.”

“That’s probably your frame processing the CNA Jazz deposited. You’ve got a least an ember on your spark. Mirage is looking to liberate a spark baffle from Pharma’s inventory. It’ll stop you from catching.”

“I am a Sigma spark. Can we even bud?”

“I can’t see why not. Your spark is no different from mine, Prowl, just because it was taken from Vector Sigma.”

“I am a cold construct. I am different. Except when I was not. When I was one of a cohort.”

“Were all the enforcers like you?”

“No... We had different modifications based on our assigned functions. I was intended for metaforensics, and then to direct units against incursions by Vosian organized crime.”

“Were all your enforcers the same?”

“We looked the same. The same face. The same voice. Our colouring signified which precinct we were bound to. Sometimes enforcers were transferred from one cohort to another. But it was always a difficult integration for the transfer.”

“They formed you into packs like lupinoids. It’s difficult for a pack to accept a stranger into their midst.”

“That is not an inaccurate comparison,” Prowl said. “What if Mirage is unsuccessful?”

“He will be. This is Mirage. Stealing a baffle is nothing compared to his normal mega-cycle’s work.”

Hound stayed as Prowl fuelled. Prowl thought he stayed to ensure Prowl drank both the med-grade, the mid-grade and the coolant. Before Hound left, he gave Prowl another pain blocker, both heating and cooling pads. If his back ached, Prowl was to use the heating bad. If his valve ached, he was to apply more of that salve, and utilize the cooling pad. Eventually, the swelling would go down, Hound promised him. He did not say Prowl would would be the same as before, he could not be. His seal was gone. When Prowl had finished his fuel, the scout ordered him to rest. It was not a difficult command to follow. His thoughts turned to Jazz. Hound had not shared Pharma’s prognosis. Though he thought to go after Hound, Prowl’s tired frame had different ideas, and soon he was in recharge.

The Spec Ops team lingered in Nova Cronum for an orn. With their rookie and their commander under repairs in Nova Cronum’s medbay, they were in no hurry to return to Iacon, and Iacon had not recalled them home. Prowl was in some ways grateful for their presence. While these mechs had not been ones he had thought to call friends, they had now taken him into their fold. Hound kept Prowl appraised of Jazz’s condition so Prowl did not need to risk limping into the medbay to see to Jazz himself, though he wished he could risk it. He missed Jazz. He would miss him more once they were serving on opposite sides of the planet. Having never touched his interface hardware, Prowl was forced to be come familiar and comfortable with the process as he continued to apply to salve to his chafed and abraded component. To keep up appearances, and to not be accused of being derelict in his duty, Prowl spent the mega-cycles in his office, processing the reports Thunderclash sent back to base. He felt like he was racing a little against time. As Thunderclash was always in motion, Prowl had no time to plan what those motions should be. He understood why his predecessor had requested a transfer. Hound and Mirage, and even Trailbreaker expressed disapproval for the joors he was working, but they could not deny there was little else for him to do. As he tried to get a handle on his new duties, Prowl found himself under Spec Ops’ peculiar care.

They carried him to his office at the start of his duty shift, disguised by Hound’s holograms. Though could have limped along without too much trouble. Throughout the mega-cycle they brought him fuel, coolant and medgrade. In the dark-cycle, rather than leave Prowl to figuring out how to rest comfortably in his office chair, they snuck him to his quarters to recharge in his berth. This level of care, it was not unfamiliar. Prowl would have accepted it with comfort and grace if it had come from one of his enforcer cohort, or from Jazz. But the Spec Ops were not his enforcers, and he was not part of their tight knit little team. Trailbreaker was closer to these mechs than Prowl. Before Prowl had selected him to be his replacement, Trailbreaker had already been friends with Hound and Mirage. He did accept the aid, there was no refusing it, regardless how awkward he felt with the attention. They were grateful, he realized, for doing what was necessary to save Jazz. They did not need to be grateful. He had done it for himself.

Over the course of the orn, he healed. Prowl could walk, with a shuffling limp. Naturally, Hound did not allow him many opportunities to exert himself. Either he or Trailbreaker carried him about wherever he was inclined to go. He flushed when he found Trailbreaker had another cooling pad into his office, but Prowl could not deny how much it helped. It was peculiar how easily a big mech like Trailbreaker snuck around, but Prowl supposed his force field was probably more adaptive than he realized. Trailbreaker was really the ideal tactician to serve alongside a Spec Ops team. Glyph came that the patients had both stabilized enough for transport, and Ratchet had personally requested they be transferred to his care. Pharma, the resident medic of Nova Cronum, had sneered, according to Mirage, and grumbled about Ratchet’s arrogance, but as CMO for the Autobot Corp, Ratchet’s glyph overruled everyone’s, including Prime’s. On the eve of their departure, the three mechs who had cared for him, and who would keep his secret to their tombs, joined him in his office.

“You’re sure you don’t need anymore help?” Hound asked. “I could make up an excuse to stay longer.”

“Thank you for your concern, Hound,” Prowl replied. “I am perfectly capable of managing. Special Operations is in chaos with Longarm’s defection. They need experienced ops to put it back into order.”

“Rumour has it Highbrow’s in line to replace Longarm,” Trailbreaker said.

“That is one insult I don’t think I can stomach,” Mirage sneer. When he wished to play the arrogant noblemech, he did it well. “Jazz will go rogue in two orns. Tops.”

“Highbrow would likely resign after one meeting with Jazz,” Prowl replied. They said there goodbyes. Prowl was unexpectedly pleased by the sincerity in their good wishes. Hound and Trailbreaker left with that, but Mirage lingered. As the door closed he reached out his servo to Prowl and dropped a small device into his palm.

“It’s the baffle Hound had me hunting for,” he explained. “Install it in your chamber, and it will stop anything from forming. Sorry it took so long to liberate one from the medbay.”

“Thank you,” Prowl said. He had been so caught up in his work, he had forgotten. Primus, he was a fool. “I had forgotten...”

“You should take better care of yourself,” Mirage scolded him. “Jazz won’t be here to remind you to fuel.”

“I should not be surprised you knew about that,” Prowl replied. It had always been a problem. Once his ATS got going, he forgot everything but his work.

“We can stay longer,” Mirage said. “Until you have your bearings.”

“I will be fine,” Prowl declared. He placed the baffle on his desk.

“Are you sure?” Mirage asked. “Jazz... Jazz would want us to make sure you were alright.”

“I am. Thanks in large part due to you and Hound,” Prowl confessed, and he gestured to the baffle. “I didn’t know these things existed.”

“I suppose you wouldn’t. Your caste didn’t practice reproduction.”

“No,” Prowl confirmed as he looked down at the device. “We were all cold constructed in sets.”

“Some how, Prowl,” Mirage said. “I think even in a cohort of one hundred identical protoforms, you were always one of a kind.”

Prowl continued to stare at the device for a long time after Mirage had gone. Thank Primus, Mirage had found it. Why Prowl had been built with reproductive parts, why any enforcer had been, confused him. Prowl had never known of a single enforcer who had left their function, though legally it had been permitted after thirty thousand vorns service. Considering Prowl had served five times as many vorns’ with the enforcers, if such a thing had been even remotely common place, he would have heard of it. Caught up in thought, Prowl did not recognize the ping at his door until it started to open and he quickly dropped the baffle into his bottom drawer. It was General Thunderclash.

“Sir!” Prowl stood and saluted.

“We found more Cons in those mountains than we were expecting,” Thunderclash explained. “It’s time to put that processor of yours to work!”

“Yes, sir,” Prowl followed his new commander out of his office. To call this a baptism on fire was an understatement.

***

Prowl never really felt like he could stop. Though he missed Jazz, the ache of it deep in his spark, but there was never a lot of time to dwell on it. After yet another foray into Decepticon territory to rescue Neutral energon scavengers who had been captured in the canyon, Prowl collapsed at his deck. Primus, he was tired. While he could think on his peds, Prowl’s best work was carefully and patiently planned. He missed those long dark-cycle with Jazz. He missed going into a confrontation with at least one hundred different strategies ready to address any surprises. Thunderclash was exhausting. His subordinates adored him, but Primus that mech needed to take a moment to stop and to think. He was too much like Prime in so many ways. As he blindly reached into his drawer for the rust sticks he had hidden, Prowl’s workstationed buzzed. When he accepted the comm, Prowl saw it was Jazz. Though he would have denied it, Prowl grinned.

“I was wonderin’ if I’d ever catch ya,” Jazz said. “Thunderclash is workin’ ya hard.”

“These last stellar-cycles have been educational,” Prowl replied. “I am learning I am more capable of spontaneity than I had thought.”

“Ya still hate it.”

“Despise it. I look back on the battles and think of what I would have done differently, what we should have done differently. If I had been able to prepare at all.”

“Have ya spoken to Thunderclash?”

“He does not hear me. Inaction is cowardice.”

“Ya thinkin’ o’ askin’ for a transfer?” Jazz asked,

“I want to see this vorn through. But perhaps. Perhaps I am not suited to a command.”

“Y’re more ‘n capable of command.”

“I appreciate the vote of confidence.”

“Thunderclash is pretty... extra, Prowl. Ya wouldn’t be the first that didn’t mesh wit’m.”

“He is a good, and kind mech. I find it frustrating that I do not work better with him. I feel it is my fault.”

“It ain’t. We got what we got done ‘cause yer a thinker, ‘n a planner. Thunderclash... he don’t always think.”

“He does get things done.”

“He does.”

“I understand Highbrow is stepping down.’

“Thank Primus for that. I was startin’ to worry Raj was gonna slit his throat in his recharge.”

“I would have thought you would have had more issues with him than Mirage.”

“Raj don’t like how Highbrow treats ops. He took a real dislike to how Highbrow treats Cliffjumper like a secretary. Never thought he’d go to bad for CJ.”

“The enemy of my enemy.”

“That’s what they say.”

Prowl retreated to his habsuite, spark spinning and interface array tingling. He did not know why just speaking to Jazz so often resulted in this arousal. Perhaps it was a blessing they had never managed to meet face to face since the incident in the Sonic Canyon. As he arrived at his berth, Prowl tried to ignore it. It was rare to have more than a dark-cycle’s rest in his own berth, and he needed to make up for all the broken recharges he endured quartex after quartex. But it was impossible to ignore. Laying on his back, doorwings stretched out under him, Prowl rested his servo over his chassis. His frame was heating, his spark was spinning. His other servo trailed down his midsection. As his servo reached his array, his modesty panel pulled back. Prowl touched himself. He was wet.

Reaching for his berthside table, Prowl grabbed the lubricant he had procured for dark-cycles like this. He had spend tens of vorns without so much as a thought of self-pleasure, but now he could hardly go three quartexes without feeling the desperate urge to overload. Coating his digits in the lubricant, Prowl reached back between his legs and stroked his digits over his valve. Oh, he was wet, so wet he probably did not need the lubricants but the pain from the raw fragging he had endured as Jazz’s rut had dragged on had stuck with in, and Prowl was always certain his servos, or the false spike he had purchased were dripping with synthetic lubricants. Optics dimmed and hips arched, Prowl traced the plush outer rim of his valve. It had never returned to the narrow slit it had been. He had learned that it was the seal that kept an untouched valve close so tight. Prowl did not miss the seal, not at all. He eased his middle digit passed the quivering rim of his desperate valve and moaned softly as his valve clamped down around this singled digit. His palm ground against his anterior node. As his moans grew louder, Prowl added another digit to the first quickly stimulating his internal sensory nodes. The digits of his other servo dug into his bumper. An overload was building between his legs and his spark got tighter and tighter until he overloaded with a shout.

As Prowl’s valve gushed around his digits, his spark surged. Prowl gasped, and arched his back as it felt like something was being pulled down from his spark chamber. Vents flared, Prowl thrashed as it pulled down, and down and down. His servo followed the path. Under his servo he felt his protoform flex without his purview, and he arched his back again. There was another deep tug and he gasped. Both servos fell onto his midsection, just under his chassis and Prowl writhed as his protoform contracted and protracted under this servos, and contracted again. His spark surged again and Prowl collapsed against the pillows. As he clutched his belly, he felt something protract again, pushing against his servos. It locked into place. Prowl ran his servos over his protoform. There was most definitely a projection. Confusion turned into horror as the truth dawned on him. Though he knew the truth, Prowl clean himself quickly and ran back to his office. Late in the dark-cycle, the halls were empty. His legs were gel as he fell into his chair. Prowl tugged open his drawer and shoved the jar of rust sticks aside; he reached under it and closed his servo around the small cylinder. As if he had been scalded, Prowl pulled his servo back.

He had not intended to forget. Oh Primus he had not intended to forget. But as Prowl stared down into his desk drawer he saw the baffle sitting there amongst the clutter. His servo fell over his forge, the plating of his protoform was rounded where this component had extended. There was no mistaking it, Prowl was carrying. The mega-cycles he had spent under Jazz had borne fruit; he was thirty gestational stellar-cycles along. It was far too late for the baffle now, far too late to discretely terminate. Termination now would require surgical intervention. They would ask questions, but mechanisms would ask questions sooner or later. How long could Prowl hope to hide… this.

Just for a little while, Prowl decided, his servo never leaving his forge. Under his palm he felt the vibration of this new component as the newspark settled in. The pain he had felt had been the newspark detaching from his spark and making its way into his forge. Sanity and reason told Prowl to take a leave of absence, to seek out the services of a Neutral medic and… And… His spark swelled with love. He brought his other servo under his chassis and stroked his swollen plating. Prowl was in awe. He dimmed his optics. In awe that his Sigma harvested spark, and his cold constructed frame could create and nurture a new life. Would this spark become a Praxian? Or an Amalgus? Or both? Jazz’s originator had been Polihexian, and Jazz’s preference for that form was rooted in this fact. It would not matter. It would be nothing if he made a quick visit to a discrete medic but... Prowl stroked his forge again.

Prowl would take a leave of absence. He would go to Simfur, he would give emergence, and he would place this newspark in the care of Neutrals who would raise him as their own. What if he was an Amalgus, Prowl asked himself, and the peace he had felt with that plan quickly evaporated. What then? Even if the newspark emerged with two proto-doors, it meant nothing. He could still be an Amalgus. Could Prowl trust a stranger to love his creation, to guard and to care for him knowing what he might be? Would they hurt his creation for being what he was? Would they use him to their own benefit? Prowl’s plating flared and his lipplates pulled back into a snarl. He could not trust. He did not trust. No one could love this newspark as well as him.

So what then? Prowl asked himself. As he stroked his forge, too early to feel the newspark move just yet, but he imagined he could. He could not terminate. His spark recoiled at the notion. If Prowl could not adopt his creation out, he could not trust a stranger to love him as he deserved, what did he do? Prowl frowned as he considered the possibility. The most obvious answer was the most untenable, he could not retire. Prowl had been constructed to serve, and the need to follow this programming was strong. The idea of slipping away to some Neutral colony to raise his creation made him cringe. He would surely lose his sanity as he watched the murderers of his city-state lay scourge to Cybertron. But what else could he do? He could not allow his situation to come to light. There would be questions and the answers would either destroy Jazz or destroy him. What else was there? A suddenly bolt of inspiration shot through Prowl’s processor. If he took a leave of absence, and gave emergence in secret, he could forge an adoption certificate and return with his newling. Certainly Bots would question what in Primus’ designation had possessed _him_ to adopt but there would be no investigation into the circumstances. He did not even need Thunderclash’s approval. Even if his commander had concerns, he was too good a mech to fault his subordinate for wanting to care for some orphaned newling. It was madness, but it was the perfect madness.


	3. Trial

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prowl's best laid plans fall apart as his race against time leads to stumbles and falls. The emotional trials are considerably more draining than the literal.

It should have been. It would have been had Megatron not turned away from Iacon and set his sights on Nova Cronum. All thoughts of leave evaporated. Thunderclash rallied Nova Cronum around him. Everything felt different now; it felt less like a glory hound’s pursuit for more glory. The battles were becoming messier. Their victories were fewer. Soon the only thing remaining was survival. Prowl extended his armour, mimicking the SWAT template his fellow enforcers had worn. Not him, he had been a tactician. He had not been meant to step into the line of fire. Though Prowl had ordered the armour constructed with disguise in mind, it proved more vital than that. Has hostilities around Nova Cronum surged, Thunderclash was not content to leave Prowl in the background. He called for Prowl to stand with him, in the thick of the battle, orn on end. Orns turned into quartexes and then stellar-cycles. While the armour hid and guarded his jutting protoform, some changes in Prowl’s frame were less easily disguised. It was a struggle to stand upright as his frame bowed back trying to find a new centre of balance as he passed the fifty-third stellar-cycle of his carrying. When he walked it was a trial not to wobble and hobble along. He hoped his subordinates blamed it on his unbalanced armour, if they noticed at all.

Prowl did not remember how many battles he had spent like this, trying to direct the course of the fight from the thick of it. This was not his place. He could not see the great see of Autobots or Decepticons as they tangled together. It was difficult to get even the slightest idea how the battle was turning. Prowl was weary, and he was scared. He wanted to shrink away from the fighting, to curl over forge and to guard the precious newspark inside of him. Instead, he armed the rocket on his right shoulder and fired. His creation almost thrashed within his forge, voicing his displeasure at the violent vibrations the launcher generated. Swallowed up in the see of Autobot combatants, Prowl placed a servo under his chassis and willed his creation calm. As the crush moved towards him, Prowl took a step back. He had no idea where Thunderclash had gone. Surrounded by warbuilds, Prowl could not see the battle raging around him, and was helpless to guide it in anyway.

When would Thunderclash understand? Prowl needed the higher ground if he was going to accomplish anything. As he took another step back, Autobots were tossed in all directions, screaming as their struts were snapped, and their frames torn apart, before their attacker discarded them. A Decepticon towered over Prowl, and Prowl leaped back as the monstrous mech grabbed for him. He stumbled. His bulging forge set him off balance and it took Prowl a few nanokliks to finding his centre of balance. It was nanokliks too many. The Decepticon wrench Prowl towards him, grinning maniacally. As Prowl thrashed, his attacker’s servo slipped under the armour extension Prowl had only just added to his chassis. He was quickly outgrowing his armour as he passed his fifty-four gestational cycle.

“Oh, ho ho,” the Deception jeered, and he hooked a digit under Prowl’s armour plate. “Now what’s this you’re hiding here? I think I’ll rip you open first!”

The Decepticon did not get a chance to tear the armour away. In the nanokliks he had been distracted by his discovery, Prowl had been slipping his servo into his subspace. He pulled the trigger on his acid pellet rifle as soon as he had it in his servo. It had been Jazz who had taught him to always ensure his secondary weapon was always loaded at the ready when he stepped into the field. As the greying Decepticon fell back, Prowl saw Thunderclash diving into land. His commander transformed, one ped on the slain berserker. The soldiers around them cheered. They rallied. They assumed Thunderclash had slain the monstrous Decepticon; Prowl could not have given less of a damn. All he wanted was to cradle his forge and to reassure himself and his creation. But with Thunderclash looking down at him, Prowl could only arm his rocket launcher, and aim.

“Are you alright Prowl?” His commander asked.

“Yes, Sir,” Prowl lied. Thunderclash did not see through the lie and he shot back into the sky.

Prowl scarcely felt the passage of time. Each time the Decepticons hoard receded back to their own territorials, Prowl applied for a leave. But before Thunderclash could approve it, they surged again, and Prowl’s leave was denied. The cycle went ‘round and ‘round. More than once, Prowl went to Thunderclash with a confession on his glossa, but each time he shied. He thought of Jazz and was terrified. It would ruin him, them. Jazz was serving as acting Spec Ops commander. Such a revelation, such a scandal would ruin him, and he deserved better. Even if they rightly laid the fault for the incident, and the deception on Prowl, Jazz would be destroyed by it. He would not let Prowl take the fall. He would find some way to take the blame himself.

In those rare and precious moments where Jazz reached Prowl on the comm, Prowl cradled his forge. His creation seemed liveliest when he spoke with Jazz as he knew that his originator was speaking to his progenitor. Prowl knew Jazz would be a good progenitor, given the opportunity. Even if the bitlet proved to emerge with his heritage. He was a good mech, and Prowl felt some guilt for keeping so great a secret but his processor could only envision the horror Jazz would feel, and the guilt, and he feared what Jazz would do.

Still, as Prowl hurriedly packed his desk. Intelligence reports he had received that light-cycle had Decepticons activities in the badlands between Altihex and Nova Cronum. Prowl knew if he did not get out of Nova Cronum this mega-cycle, his leave would be denied. The end of his gestational term was dawning. He had come so far it could truly be any mega-cycle. Prowl had never seen a medic. There were so many things he had left to do. He felt so unprepared. In his race against time itself, Prowl kept stumbling behind. After the incident with that Decepticon, Prowl had added more layers to his armour. It was so bulk his doorwings could hardly move, but his forge was better protected. He looked ridiculous, like a block with legs. The Autobots of Nova Cronum snickered at his back. They assumed his armour was a sign of his cowardice. They knew he had asked, again and again, to not be assigned to the front. With as much passion as they loved Thunderclash, they loathed Prowl.

Prowl reached into his drawer to take his rust sticks to pack away. With a grunt of strain, Prowl managed to pull it from the joor. It took him a moment right himself, and as he looked down into the drawer, he saw the baffle, and sighed with regret. Jazz had chastised him more than once that his absentmindedness towards his own health would be his undoing. It had proven to be true. He tried to reach it, it was of laughably little use now, and stood to raise uncomfortable questions if Countdown discovered it while he covered Prowl’s post. Prowl almost toppled from his chair, only just barely catching himself on his desk. With the baffle secured in his servo, he slowly righted himself again. Just this was such an effort, Prowl sagged back in his chair, exhausted. His abdominal armour brushed against his desk. He could hardly sit behind it anymore.

“Prowl.” Thunderclash never knocked. It was one of his traits that annoyed Prowl most. Prowl wobbled back and form as he tried to stand and salute. His commander looked at him as if he was seeing how ridiculous his tactician had become in the last thirty stellar-cycles.

“Sir,” Prowl said. He gave no outward sign of his self-consciousness. Prowl had always had a talent for putting up fronts.

“Reports from Special Intelligence suggest the Decepticons are mobilizing outside of Altihex.”

“Yes, Sir. I read the report.”

“Then you won’t be surprised that I’m cancelling your leave.”

“Sir,” Prowl entreated. He had known it was coming, but that did not make the reality any less dire. There was no way he could stay. If he stayed Prowl thought he would surely just enter emerged on a battlefield. “Sir. I have filed for leave ten times. I have not done it casually. I need to take this leave. I am not fit for service.”

“You’re medically unfit?” Thunderclash asked.

“Yes, Sir.”

“I’m afraid I can’t take your glyph for it. Pharma will have to sign off on your application.”

“Pharma...” the medic was a Seeker.

A Seeker who had been staring at his back for stellar-cycles. A Seeker Prowl had taken great care to avoid for just as many. There was an arrogance in Pharma that reminded Prowl of the Seekers who had laid claim to Praxus, who had looked as his kind as runaway broadcarriers, as if their two frametypes had not split off millions of stellar-cycles before. Entitled like the Seekers who had destroyed Praxus when the mechanisms they believed they had the right to claim as property rejected that claim. The originator protocols that had been written in his code as his forge had grown told Prowl to flee. His creation was not Seekerkin. No Seeker had right to it.

“Of course. Now Prowl, do you want to tell me just what has suddenly made you unfit to serve?”

“I... I...”

The glyphs caught in Prowl’s throat and he fell back into his chair in a clatter of plating. There was no escape. He was trapped. He was lost. The stress of fifty stellar-cycles of planning and faltering and panicking bubbled up in Prowl’s spark and he whined piteously as his ATS and emotional cortex surged at once. The load on his processor was too much and he began to overheat. Even as Prowl felt the crashing blooming in his helm, he could not slow it, let alone stop it. His frame shuddered as survival protocols redirected coolant from his limbs to his overheating processor. It would do no good. As overheating warning blared in his helm, his self-repair systems triggered a hard reset. Prowl crashed.

Thunderclash was at Prowl’s berthside as he onlined. Prowl did not need to touch himself to know his armour had been stripped. He was laying naked on an exam berth, without so much as a warming blanket, the great swell of his forge there for all to see. It was a violation. A crash did not warrant the removal of his armour. Pharma was a noisy mech. Grief welled in Prowl spark. There was no doubt in his processor that Pharma would have taken CNA samples. Everything he had been trying to avoid, everything he had been fighting to avoid for nearly a vorn was going to come out. Somehow, Prowl had to save Jazz. Perhaps teeking his panic, Thunderclash took Prowl’s servo and squeezed it gently. Prowl felt sympathy in his field, and guess what conclusions his commander had come to.

“You never sought medical attention after the incident in the Sonic Canyons,” he said.

“No,” Prowl replied. He would not tell him of Hound and Mirage’s assistance. They did not need to pay for his stupidity.

“You never reported the rape.”

“I was not raped.”

“Pharma is going to run the CNA to see if we have the mechanism on record. We can file charges. If the Decepticon is ever capture, we can lock them away for good.”

“I was not raped.”

“Prowl...”

“I was not raped. A CNA test is unnecessary. I know who the progenitor is.”

“Prowl?”

“Autobot Jazz.”

“Autobot Jazz arrived in Nova Cronum with significant processor damage. Pharma thought he had been subject to some sort of virus.”

“Perhaps that was how Shockwave accomplished it.”

“Shockwave had Autobot Jazz rape you?”

“No!” Prowl snapped. He struggled to raise himself up onto his elbows. One servo fell over his forge. In another life he had observed gravid Praxians, from a respectful distance. They had never appeared so ridiculously massive as he had become. Perhaps he had never seen one so far along. No proper Praxian would have gone into combat like this. “Autobot Jazz did not rape me. Shockwave trigger a reproductive rut in him. His systems overheated, badly. It had to be stopped.”

“I understand it was not his fault...”

“No sir. You do not. Jazz resisted the rut. He made the decision to die rather than act on his reproductive urges. He told me to tie him to a tree and to leave him. I refused. I was not willing to let him die. I coerced him into interfacing me.”

“You coerced him?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Does he know?”

“No, sir.”

“This is a serious offence, Prowl. Though I understand why you did what you did. The assault of a fellow Autobot, and using your possible of authority to cover it up. These are grounds for your court martial.”

“I understand, sir.”

Thundercrash arranged the trial with an expediency someone other than Prowl might have felt angered by. But for him, this was a mercy. Before the trial preparations had begun, both he and Thunderclash had known what the end verdict would be. Prowl fully intended to plead guilty. It needed to be done quickly. He was not being railroaded. The quick trial was exactly what he wanted. As soon as it was over, he could move on. Though Prowl had once planned to go to Simfur to have his creation, the angry, disgusted looks from his fellow Autobots, the venomous insults thrown at him whenever he ventured from his quarters suggested to Prowl that this could not be contained to Nova Cronum, for all Thundercrash’s promises. He might have put a gag on communication leading up to the trial, but he could not keep their comms quiet forever. Soon glyph would spread. His designation would be scrap in any Autobot or Neutral territory. The best thing Prowl could do for himself and his creation was get off world.

Jazz. Prowl had no doubt Jazz would be called to attend the hearing if not for the fact that he was deep undercover in Altihex. He was so close, and yet. In equal parts Prowl longed to talk to Jazz, to explain before glyph reached him, to make him see he had done what he thought was best, or to run from him, to hide from him. None of this was Jazz’s fault. Not the rut, and not Prowl failure to use the baffle. The consequences were Prowl’s burden. If Jazz knew, he would put them on his own shoulders. If... there was no if there was only when. Prowl was at war with himself; he wanted so badly to reach out to Jazz, and to seek his support. But he could not. How could he? Jazz would feel obligated, and Prowl did not want that on his spark for the rest of his life. Still, Jazz would learn what had happened. So what did he do? Prowl felt spark sick. Within him his creation seemed to press against his forge from all sides. He soothed his servos over his forge.

He would not hide. No. Prowl would not hide. If Jazz wished to seek him out he would make it easy for him. But if Jazz preferred to carry on as he always had, then it would be his choice. Tears bubbled up in Prowl optics. It was a devastating prospect, because if Jazz did not seek him out, it would break his spark. Setting what his spark wanted so desperately aside, Prowl made his plans. Having been officially removed from duty, Prowl finally had time to think. Velocitron was ideal. It was far enough away to ensure the long arm of the war would be slow to reach it. While Praxian were not common anywhere, and never had been, they were speedsters, he was a speedster and he would be able to blend it well enough. Thunderclash had promised Prowl would not be sentenced to detention, and so Prowl took a gamble. He booked a shuttle leaving Nova Cronum for Velocitron for the same mega-cycle as the trial.

Only the base’s officers were in attendance when the light-cycle of the trial arrived. As Prowl sat alone at his table, having declined counsel, Thunderclash read the charges, and in the next ventilation he asked for Prowl’s plea. There was a murmur of surprise the officers when Prowl pleaded guilty, but there was an uproar when Thunderclash declared they would move straight to sentencing. Even as he was speaking it, the officers protested. A dishonourable discharge was too light a punishment, the trial was a sham. With each passing ventilation they became more irate. From the back of the room someone accuses Thunderclash of accepting interfacial favours in exchange for the extraordinary mercy he had shown. The whole room went quiet, and Prowl bowed his helm. Thunderclash did not deserve to have his designation sullied like that. As Thunderclash turned to face his officers he frowned at them, looking to Prowl like a kicked turbopuppy. The Greatest Autobot of All Time only needed to look at them to get them to fall in to line. His cult of personality would live on. The tribunal was dismissed. Prowl lingered until they had all dispersed. In the end only he and Thunderclash remained.

“Feelings are high,” Thunderclash said. “I’ll arrange a transport to take you to Iacon as soon as you’re ready.”

“Iacon, Sir?” Prowl asked.

“That is where Autobot Jazz is stationed.”

“I am not going to Iacon. I have already purchased a ticket to Velocitron leaving this dark-cycle.”

“You aren’t going to speak to him?”

“It has to be his choice,” Prowl said. Though he had resisted for all of the brief trial, he could not help but gently cup his forge. “I did not honour his choice then. Where we back in that place, my decision would be the same. But I made the error here. It is my own fault I am with spark, not his. If I go to him he will feel compelled to help me. I do not want to be anyone’s duty. If he wants to see me, I have left my information on this datapad. I am not going into hiding. I am just... going.”

“See a medic as soon as you land,” Thunderclash said, taking the datapad Prowl had prepared. “You’ve refused to see Pharma.”

“I have already scheduled an appointment and have a hotel booked,” Prowl replied. “Thank you for your expediency, Sir.”

“I wish you’d told me, Prowl. Somehow... things might have been different. This was the reason you wanted to be stationed on the high ground, wasn’t it.”

“No, Sir. I wanted the high ground because I could not effectively direct a battle if I could not see it. I am a tactician, sir. I plan strategies and I execute them. More than that, all of my combat training is in long range weapons. I am a sniper, not a warbuild. I am wholly ill-suited to leading from the front.”

“You put up with me better than most have.”

“Countdown will do better.”

“Do you actually believe that.”

“At the very least he wants to be in the front.”

“Take care of yourself, Prowl. And your little one.”

Leaving Nova Cronum was easy. Prowl had wanted to leave just about as soon as he had arrived, and he had trying in all seriousness to leave for thirty stellar-cycles. Leaving Cybertron was harder. He had lived nowhere else, even after Praxus, he had desired to live nowhere else. It had been essential to his sanity to do something to avenge the state he had been forged in. With six vorns having passed since he had enlisted, Prowl’s view of his life and Praxus had changed a great deal. Praxus had made tools of mechs. They had done it so well they had not thought to question that they were tools. If the Decepticons had destroyed it in a warped desire to liberated the cold constructs, he might have loathed them less. But the Seekers, with Megatron’s blessing, had destroyed Praxus and so many innocent sparks because they wanted to be the masters of them Prowl would never forgive this. But it was no longer his battle to fight, and he would make his peace of it. There was little choice otherwise.

The Transport Hub was oddly empty. As he waited to board the transport there were not nearly so many mechanisms waiting as he would have expected. From his chosen perch he watch two young Praxian being let towards his gate. It was hard not to stare. He had not seen Praxian sparklings since the mega-cycle the city-state fell. The smaller of the two chewed his thumb as the elder fluttered his doorwings. Prowl tried to read them but the glyphs were garbled by nonsense. It was possible the mechling did not know his own language anymore. It grieved Prowl. Though he wanted to speak to the mechlings, he remained where he was seated. That they were Praxians did not give him a right to disturb them. Their character, a Tagonian from the look of him tried to get them settled, but the younger one was boisterous, even at the late joor. When his optics landed on Prowl, when their optics locked, he squealed with joy and immediately raced towards him.

“Bluestreak!” His caretaker snapped.

“You’re Praxian like me!” The little one exclaimed as he stopped in front of Prowl and stared up at him in awe.

“I am. My designation is Prowl. You are Bluestreak?”

“Uh uh! Are you going to Velocitron too?”

“I am.”

“Are you having a bitty?”

“Soon.”

“I am so sorry,” His caretaker said as he trotted up. “Bluestreak. Leave this mech alone.”

“He is not doing any harm,” Prowl replied as he watched the mechling wilt. “I have not seen a Praxian sparkling for several vorns.”

“Oh well... They haven’t seen other Praxians either. Come on over Smokescreen.”

“Are you excited for your trip, Bluestreak?” Prowl asked.

“I like racing. I hope our caretaker takes us to lots of races.”

The younger one chattered on. Prowl had never been around such an exuberant sparkling before. Then again his contacts with them had been limited. Bluestreak as joyous. He did not seem at all perturbed that he was being shuffled from one foundling centre, to the next. It was not a bad idea on the part of the caretaker network. Nova Cronum was not as safe as it had once been, as Prowl had become to personally aware in the last vorn. The elder mechling, not elder by much, watched. Prowl suspected he was considerably less enthused by the transfer, but he did not make any complaint. He only sat next to Bluestreak and kicked his legs. Smokescreen had the optics of a mechling who had seen more than one so young ever should, and somewhere along the way he had shutdown. He was swaying his doorwings up and back, Prowl watched them. One, two, three, wobble. One, two, three, wobble... wobble. Was he counting?

“Are you practicing your wingspeak, Smokescreen?” Prowl asked.

“Yeah... no one knows it.”

“Maybe you and Bluestreak would like to practice with me?”

“Bluestreak doesn’t know any.”

“You can help me teach him.”

One, two, three, four. Smokescreen perked up as he practised the motion for four. Bluestreak was enthralled, and he moved his doorwings, trying to memorize the movements. He had been too young at the time of the slaughter to have learned even much in the way of Praxus’ spoke dialect. In showing him some basic cants, Prowl gave him back a piece of his heritage. As they waited for the call to board, they practised. Please. Thank you. Yes. No. Prowl rested his servo on his forge. He had no idea if his little one would be Praxian. If he took after his progenitor and proved to be an Amalgus, he would have his choice of frame. What he was matter less to Prowl than _that_ he was. All he wanted was his creation to emerge healthy. Nothing else mattered. There was nothing else left.

“We tried matching them with Seekerkin couples to give them that connection neither of them do well with fliers,” their caretaker, designated Takedown, explained.

“I can understand how they would be intimidated,” Prowl replied. Up. Down. Stop. Go.

“Will those with young creations, gravid mechanisms or the elderly please line up and present your boarding passes.”

There were even few mechanisms that Prowl had counted at the gate. He tried not to worry, and trusted that if Decepticon activities were at unsafe levels they would ground the transport. Having returned to his traditional armour, Prowl was slightly less ungainly but he still walked with a pronounced waddle, given how late he was in his term. Normally someone as close to emergence as Prowl would not have been allowed to board a transport. But given the state of the planet, any gravid mechanism, at any stage in their carrying, who wanted to flee was permitted to. That did not mean he did not get a bit of a look from the attendant. It did not matter, their opinion could not have mattered less. Prowl waddled to his seat at the back of the shuttle and took his seat. While statistics were overall mixed, overall the safest seat on any transport was in the back. Prowl sat next to the window and cradled his forge. Jazz was so close. No. Prowl needed to go. If Jazz came for him, it was because Jazz wanted to be there. Primus Prowl hoped. He _prayed._

He saw the mechlings sitting together a few rows ahead. After ensuring they were settled, Takedown left, they would be taking this journey alone. A new caretaker would retrieve them from the Hub in Velocitron and care for them until permanent placements could be found. If any ever were. Prowl spark broke for them. They were so young, and they were being forced to be so strong. The shuttle was largely empty, even after everyone seemed to have boarded. As it happened, the seats next to Prowl remained empty. Bluestreak spotted him and turned around in his chair, his doorwings gesticulating wildly. Smokescreen peered around at him, maybe afraid to show a fraction of Bluestreak’s enthusiasm. Blue, streak. Smoke, screen. While the shuttle remained on the tarmac, Prowl continued with the lesson. Eventually, Bluestreak leapt from his chair and ran down the aisle to Prowl.

“Can I please sit with you?”

“I do not know if the crew will allow it,” Prowl replied. He imagined the answer would be no. The attendant who had helped Takedown get the mechlings seated came over. Prowl had the peculiar urge to flare his armour. He was nesting, he realized. That was the reason he had a dozen blankets in his subspace. That was why he wanted to steal these mechlings and claim them for his own. In reality it was a terrible idea; Prowl had no idea what the next stellar-cycle would bring.

“Can I sit with Prowl, please?” Bluestreak asked so sweetly. “I won’t be a bother.”

“He could _not_ be a bother,” Prowl interjected. It made him angry Bluestreak had been made to feel that way. “I would not mind.”

“The seats are empty... If you don’t mind. Having a familiar frame mind make it all less frightening for the mechlings,” the attendant went to Smokescreen. “Well young mech, why don’t you join your brother.”

“He’s not my brother,” Smokescreen said, almost hollow, though he stood and walked warily towards Prowl and Bluestreak. “We aren’t kin. We don’t have kin.”

“I understand, Smokescreen,” Prowl said. 

It was the right thing to say. Smokescreen climbed into the chair next to Bluestreak and settled back. Prowl could not tell Smokescreen that Bluestreak could be his brother. There was no guarantee they would go to the same home. Odds were, they would not. He wanted to tuck the mechlings under his arms and guard them from anymore pain. Perhaps he could arrange to be a tutor for them, so they did not lose their language. They should be allowed that connection to their culture. Just because Praxus was gone did not mean their doorwings should go silent. As they continued to wait, Prowl returneed to their lesson. Up. Down. High. Low. Right. Left. Stop. Go. Smokescreen swished his doorwings back and forth and up and down. The movements more natural to him then they were Bluestreak,  and the more he got to move his doorwings, the more his optics brightened,  and his mouth turned up in a smile. 

Finally, the shuttle began the take off sequence. Prowl made certain the mechlings were well secured in their harnesses, going so far as to tighten Smokescreen’s a little. When he pulled his servo back, Smokescreen whimpered and reached for it, so Prowl stretched out his arm, across Bluestreak’s lap and held Smokescreen’s servo. Bluestreak hugged Prowl’s arm as he chewed on his thumb. This was a logical kindness, he told himself, simply the decent thing. Thank Primus they were sitting with him, and not stuck five rows forward, with only each other. They should be allowed to stay together. These mechlings were the closest thing each other had to a constant. Surely they could be afford this much understanding. But given the number of foundlings coming out of every sector of Cybertron, the network no doubt just wanted to get foundlings into homes so they could save another spark. It was a version of triage. Since they had been unable to match these sparklings to any would be family on Cybertron, they were sending them to Velocitron. They were not discarding the mechlings though Prowl imagined it must have felt like it to them. At least Prowl could make the flight less stressful for them. The shuttle lifted in the air. Prowl leaned back into his chair and stared straight ahead. Jazz would be so far away... Just nanokliks into the flight, the shuttle shuddered once and Smokescreen squeezed his servo as he cried out with fright. Prowl crooned.

“It is al...”


	4. Benediction

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jazz is recalled to Iacon. Finding his originator waiting for him makes him wary. As he learns of what transpired, and argues with Prime to make the wrong right, he receives devastating news. Meanwhile, Prowl is one again looking down the edge of the abyss.

Under the cover of darkness, Jazz slipped away from Altihex. He had ignored five recall alerts in the last orn, but the latest one he had received two joors earlier had come directly from Mirage. Jazz was happy enough to ignore Prime when he had work to do, but Mirage was something different. If Mirage called him back from a deep cover mission, there had to be a good reason. As he slipped through the darkness, Jazz’s helm buzzed with five more alerts. Two were from Hound, one was from Trailbreaker. There was yet another from Mirage, but then there was one from Punch. It had been several vorns since Jazz had spoken to his origin. Though physically Punch had escaped Lockdown, their sparks were still bonded. His processor was still scarred, though Punch had turned his split personality into a tool. Though Counterpunch could not be trusted face to face, when he receded and Punch returned, he left useful intelligence behind. Punch had learned to live with what that Amalgus had done to him. There was nothing Jazz wanted more than to hunt the bounty hunter down and to rip his spark out, but he did not dare. Jazz could not avenge his originator’s indignities and rapes without risking Punch’s life.

Punch kept his distance from Jazz, and from his twin brother. To the same degree, Ricochet kept his distance from Jazz. While Jazz used the abilities of the Amalgii to serve his function, Ricochet scorned them, and it created a strain between the twins. Ricochet saw acceptance of these abilities as an insult to their originator. Sometimes, when Ricochet looked at him, Jazz was certain he saw their progenitor. To some degree, Jazz thought Ricochet blamed their originator’s difficulties on him. If Ricochet had ever had his way, Punch would have been subjected to a mnemosurgeon, to have Counterpunch removed. But Jazz outright refused to force their originator under the needles. If Punch wanted it done, it would have been. As it was, Punch continued the function he had served since before he had ever crossed paths with Lockdown, and he used Counterpuch as a tool. Just as Jazz used the Amalgus abilities he had inherited from Lockdown as a tool.

As the first light of dawn made the skyline glow, Jazz reached the turnpike, and he made tracks for home. Something had to be up for Mirage and Hound to recall him. Something had to be dire for Punch to have done the same. Could it have been Ricochet? Could something have happened. Through his sparkbond to his twin, Jazz would have known if Ricochet had died. But capture? Or injury? They were not so close that Jazz could feel his pain. They were not split sparks just to start. But more than that the chasm between them had been forged early. Jazz had been too willing to learn from their progenitor. Ricochet had not understood, and mostly still did not, that it had been a means to an end. Because Jazz had trained alongside Lockdown, he had gone on bounties with him, waiting for the mega-cycle where he could overpower him, and set his family free. Ricochet did not understand. Ricochet loathed Jazz for accepting what they were. Ricochet did not understand Jazz loathed what they were just as much as him. He had just learned to live with it.

The ground bridge at Kalis made it a quick trip to Iacon. How long he would have this short cut, Jazz did not know. In this war of attrition both sides were constantly making gains and taking losses. It felt, so futile at times. As he stepped into the city-state that had become his home, Jazz looked up at the dome over his helm. The airspace above Iacon had been closed for stellar-cycles. Seekers presented an ever constant threat. Most of the city-states were not quite so paranoid, but then they were not the Prime’s home base. With the matter of Altihex still not resolved, Jazz went looking for what had been so dire that he had been pulled from his mission. Prowl was in Nova Cronum. The Decepticons amassing in Altihex were a direct threat to his friendl; Jazz wanted to stamp it out before Thunderclash dragged Prowl to his doom.

Something was wrong. Jazz frowned darkly as he walked onto base. Bots were whispering his designation. Some stepped towards him, only to be tugged back by their friends. It made his plating flare, and the beast inside him bristle. Where was his team? He needed answers. Jazz pinged Mirage and Hound, effectively summoning them to his office which served as their HQ. His sensitive audial horns could hear the buzz of comms though he could not hear the chatter. The Autobot’s gossip mill was hard at work, and for some reason he was at the centre of it. That much explained why Hound and Mirage had called him home. Whatever this was he needed to stamp it out. Jazz liked to put on a show, on his own terms, but he did not like to be a sideshow freak.

“My bitlet,” Punch stepped into view as Jazz rounded the corner. His optics flashed brightly behind his visor. It had been so long since he had seen his originator face to face. He froze, wanting so much to reach out. Punch extended his arms, and Jazz stepped into them. The strength of his originator’s embrace surprised him. So did the anger simmering in his field. “Jazz, love. Are ya a’ight?”

“Yeah. ‘M fine. Why shouldn’t I be?”

“Hey, Jazz.” Hearing the voice that sounded so much like his own, Jazz looked up from his originator’s shoulder and saw his twin. Ricochet was standing just steps away, closer than he had come in a decavorn. Jazz squeezed his originator a final time and stepped back.

“What the frag is goin’ on?”

“We both heard the talk ‘n thought we outta see if ya needed us.”

“Talk?” Jazz asked and he thought of the looks and the whispers and he narrowed his optics. “I’ve been in deep for ten stellar-cycles. The only talk I been hearin’ is from Cons. I repeat, that the frag is goin’ on.”

“I think Hound, Trailbreaker and I need to do some explaining,” Mirage declared as he stood at the end of the hall, with their friends alongside him.”

“Well,” Jazz said. “Don’t that sound ominous.”

He put an arm around his originator and urged Punch to walk with him. When he reached his brother, Jazz clasped Ricochet’s shoulder and pulled him along as well. Whatever talk had beckoned his originator and brother to his side had to be bad. Bad enough to start the base whispering. Bad enough to see his friends looking grim, as if they had failed in some dire mission. To be so out of the loop unnerved Jazz. Though he could not call himself the processors of his team, Jazz was always in the know. Perhaps Prime had finally chosen a permanent commander for Spec Ops. Jazz had served the function in the interim, after Highbrow had thrown up his servos. Maybe they all thought he would be offended that the choice was not him. Like he wanted the job, for frag’s sake. No. Jazz did his best work in the field. Did work no one else could. Because they could not be all the things he could be.

“A’ight, y’re actin’ like someone just got shot,” Jazz said as they all retreated into his small office. “What in the Pit is goin’ on? Raj?”

“Prowl’s been dishonourably discharged,” Mirage revealed and Jazz’s helm shot back as if he had been punched.

“Prowl? Dishonour... There’s nothing dishonourable ‘bout that mech,” Jazz replied.

“Jazz,” his originator almost crooned.

“Raj. Hound. TB. Explain!”

“He was faced court martial this light-cycle in Nova Cronum,” Mirage explaiend. “For interfacial abuse, and the subsequent cover up.”

“No! He wouldn’t. Who? Who accused ‘m? They’re a lyin’ sack o’ slag.”

“Jazz...”

“I’ll rip their helm off...”

“Jazz...”

“I’ll...”

“Jazz! Love. It was ya. Y’re the victim on file.”

“What?” Jazz gasped and he took a wobbly step back. “Never. Never.”

“Jazz,” Mirage said.

“No!”

“Jazz,” he repeated.

“Listen! Jazz! Listen to us,” Hound shouted, and everyone quieted. “Sit down.”

“Not a chance in Pit. Start talkin’ Hound.”

“That experiment Shockwave ran on you. It was... He put you in a rut.”

“What? No!”

“He wanted you to rape us. He wanted to see you come out of it. See what you had done. He under estimated you. You got us out, all of us out.”

“Oh Primus. Hound.”

“We got lost. We couldn’t get out of the canyon fast enough. Prowl decided he needed to separate. He told us to find our way out and led you off...”

“No!”

“We hiked out a bit more. But it was such a mess, I couldn’t work it out and I didn’t like leavin’ the two of you on your own with Cons sniffing around, so I made Trailbreaker turn back and we hid the cave.”

“I raped Prowl in a rut.”

“No!” Hound and Mirage cried out in unison.

“Come on,” Jazz snarled. “What else coulda happened?”

“You refused to give in, Jazz” Hound said. “You were ready to die. Prowl used what he knew, and wore you down.”

“Frag. Frag. Frag.”

Punch drew Jazz in, and Jazz tensed. Despite everything his originator had done to stop him from turning into a monster, Jazz had anyway. Shockwave must have ripped out the patch Punch had written. In his chassis, a howl built and Jazz choked it down. Ricochet stroked his back, and Jazz wanted nothing more than to scream until his vocalizer shorted. They had not told him. His team, Trailbreaker, Prowl, they had all kept it a secret. Which could only mean Jazz had been monstrous. He must have hurt Prowl. Hurt him terribly. It had taken Jazz stellar-cycles to reach him on the comm. Had Prowl been so caught up in Thunderclash’s and his vendetta against Skyquake, or had he been hiding for Jazz. As his self-hate and guilt swelled in his spark, Jazz heard his originator croon, and he wrenched himself away. He stood in the centre of the office, frame trembling, mouth pulled back in a snarl.

“Jazz. Stop,” Mirage said. That tone. He only ever used it when he thought Jazz was being unreasonable.

“Ya swore ‘m to secrecy,” Jazz snarled, turning on his friends.

“Actually, no,” Mirage replied. “He swore us to secrecy.”

“What?” Jazz asked. He froze mid snarl.

“He knew you’d blame yourself, and he didn’t want you doing anything stupid so. He swore us to secrecy.”

“I hurt’m.”

“Yes.”

“Scrap.”

“He wouldn’t see a medic. Hound took care of him.”

“Hound?” Jazz asked. The question came out like a whine.

“Abrasions, inflammation. Jazz, I would have taken him to a medic if it had been anything but chafing.”

“You ran out the clock,” Mirage said. “I imagine that’s why you had so many shorts. You ran out of time for gentleness. He’s a stubborn mech, Jazz. All he wanted was to protect you.”

“You did give him the baffle?” Hound interjected with the question that froze Jazz’s spark.

“I did,” Mirage replied. “It must not have worked.”

“Baffle?” Jazz asked. His originator was at his side against, stroking his back, soothing him.

“That’s how he was found out,” Punch said. “He’s wit spark, Jazz.”

“Oh frag. They discharged ‘m. Frag!”

“Thunderclash sealed the file,” Mirage said. “So I unsealed it. Prowl pleaded guilty to all charges. Thunderclash declined to sentence him to detention due to the circumstances, his glyphs, and only discharged him.”

“For savin’ my fraggin’ life,” Jazz hissed.

“And the cover up,” Mirage said, softly. “He never mentioned out designations. He took the blame to save _all_ of us.”

“This ain’t right,” Jazz snarled. “It ain’t right! Frag... He’s gotta be due any mega-cycle ‘n they discharged ‘m in the middle o’ a fraggin’ war. Oh Primus. He... He was on the front. He was in the thick o’ the fightin’. Frag. Just quartexes ago.”

“He must have been terrified,” Punch said. Jazz straightened as he turned to his originator.

“I gotta see Prime. He’s the only one that can make this right.”

As Jazz ran in search of the Prime. He tried to reach Prowl on his comm but the call bounced back, as he tried again, Jazz realized it had been deactivated. Of course. On his discharge, his Autobot comm would have been removed. Jazz had no way to tell him he was coming, and that somehow he would make it right. Prowl. Prowl had gone into battle over and over as his newspark had been growing within him. The newspark Jazz had put in him. His attempts to be stationed further back had been denied. He had been labelled a coward by his subordinates. There was no one braver, and no one stupider. Jazz was going to give him Pit for this. He should have told him. Damn it, he should have told him.

“Jazz!”

“Prime!”

“We finally reached you,” Optimus Prime said. There was so much sympathy in his optics. Jazz snarled.

“Rescind it!” He snapped.

“Jazz?”

“Rescind the discharge! It ain’t right!”

“Jazz. I understand it’s hard to take. It’s a terrible violation. Especially at the servos of a friend...”

“He saved my fraggin’ life!” Jazz screamed with incoherent rage. “Then when it blew up in his face he took the blame to save me again.”

“Jazz.”

“Prime!”

The scream morphed into a roar as Jazz’s plating flew off his changing frame and clattered against the walls. To Prime’s right, Ironhide raised his arms to protect his face. Normally, Jazz hardly came up to Optimus’ hip but now he towered over him, snarl coming from a with a great maw full of fangs. As Ironhide reached for a weapon, Optimus pulled his arm down. Just as quickly as Jazz took on the form of a Predacon, he reverted. He stood in front of the Prime and his guard in what was closest to Jazz’s natural protoform as he tended to linger. His nakedness did not cause him any shame, but he still crossed his arms over his chassis. The shame he was feeling had nothing to do with nakedness and everything to do with what he was.

“‘M a monster.”

“You’re an Amalgus,” Ironhide said. “I did know y’re kind even existed anymore.”

“I don’t know how many there are,” Jazz replied. “I avoid them. They avoid me. The scrapsucker that sired me raped my origin durin’ a rut, ‘n he kept ‘m. Bonded ‘m by force so he could never be free o’m. I learned from ‘m so one mega-cycle I could break us outta his ship ‘n we could... I dunno. Be free. My origin can never be free. The bond is there. That beast’s always gonna have his claws in ‘m. ‘N ‘m just a reminder... Least Ricochet tries to pretend he’s nothin’ but a normal Polihexian.”

“Punch is on base,” the Prime said

“I know.”

“He doesn’t hold you responsible for this,” Optimus said. There was a sub-harmonic there. He did not blame Jazz either.

“I know,” the glyphs were shaky as Jazz held back tears.

“Jazz,” Optimus covered his shoulders with his servos. “You aren’t a monster.”

“Shockwave hacked my code ‘n took off my origin’s patch,” Jazz said, without raising his helm. “Put me in a rut. It woulda killed me, Optimus. It’s frag or die... I ‘spose that ain’t quite accurate. It’s breed or die. Our sparks ‘n frames put everythin’ into sparkin’ up the mate me choose. If yer spark ain’t strong ‘nough to kindle a mechanism, it ain’t strong ‘nough to survive.”

“You suffered severe processor damage,” Optimus said.

“Cause I fought it, or ‘cause Shockwave fragged wit it. I don’t know. I don’t remember anythin’. Like Ratchet said back then, my short term memory got fried. But I fought it. Hound says I was set on dyin’. But Prowl was set on me survivin’.”

“Your team never told you?”

“I hurt’m. Bad ‘nough that they never told me. He swore them to secrecy to protect me. ‘Cause he knew I’d hate myself for it.”

“And you do,” Optimus said, softly.

“‘Course,” Jazz looked up at his commander with a bitter frown. “Ya think I wanna be like Lockdown?”

“You aren’t, Jazz,” the Prime said. “The fact that your share his frametype doesn’t mean you share his spark. The spark is the measure of the mech.”

“I hurt Prowl. What does that say ‘bout my spark?”

“It says you were sick and suffering. You don’t believe you were worth saving?”

“No,” Jazz shook his helm. “Not at Prowl’s expense.”

“Prowl clearly disagreed.”

“‘N he got discharged for it.”

“Jazz!” Mirage called his designation as the door slid open with a snap. The guilt and the grief spilling from his field filled the room before he did. Hound was on his heels, as were Punch and Ricochet. Each mech wore grim expressions.

“What’s happenin’ ‘Raj?” Jazz asked.

“A shuttle was shot down over the Manganese Mountains a bream ago,” Mirage said. “Prowl was on it.”

“No.”

“Jazz,” Punch stepped around Mirage and reached for his creation. Jazz was shuttering. In his processor, he was screaming.

“No.”

“Jazz. Love...”

“He’s not dead!”

***

Prowl’s reassuring croon turned into a shocked exclamation as the shuttle rolled to the left. Screams filled the cabin. The mechlings clung to his arm as they screamed in terror. As the shuttle tumbled out of the roll, Prowl pushed his arm against the mechlings, holding them firmly to their chairs. In the cockpit the pilots fought, but the shuttle rolled again. They had not escape Cybertron’s gravitational pull, they were tumbling back to the planet’s surface. Clinging to his arm, the mechlings were bawling. All around them their fellow passengers screamed and cried. With each passing nanokliks they fell closer and closer to the earth, closer and closer to death.

As the shuttle lost its anti-gravity systems the g-forces pinned them to their chairs and stole their voices. With his servo pinned to his forge, Prowl felt the component contract under the pressure. He feared for his creation. He cried for him, though the tears could not fall from his optics. Time seemed to stop. For a nanolik the shuttle seemed to stabilize, and for a nanoklik there was hope. There was silence. Prowl’s shoulders slumped against his chair as g-forces released, and he cradled his forge as he looked to the terrified mechlings sitting next to him. Smokescreen smiled as he released his strangle hold on Prowl’s arms, and Prowl smiled at him.

“Everything...”

The nose struck terrain and suddenly Prowl was staring into space as the cockpit broke away. Prowl screamed. As the shuttle bounced and crashed, the mechlings’ scream, Prowl’s own scream was lost amongst the screech of rending metal. Segments of the shuttle tore away and still living, still screaming mechanisms were thrown into the black sky. Debris whipped around the cabin and Prowl gasped with pain as a piece of the fuselage struck his face. Instantly, he was blinded in his right optic. Even as his frame was buffeted by debris. Though it would have been natural to try and shield his face, Prowl hugged his forge with one arm, as he angled the other to shield his seatmates. No doubt it was a futile attempted. Strapped to his seat, Prowl could only wait, helpless for the moment when he was thrown into the void. He dug his digits into Smokescreen’s chair, as if he had enough strength in these digits to keep them all together. Cold wind whipped their plating as the shuttle continue to be torn apart on jagged rock, Prowl refused to allow these innocent sparklings to go to their deaths alone. Prowl held on for... not life, he had already accepted his fate. No, Prowl held, with every last thread of strength in him for the conviction that these mechlings would not spent a fraction of their last nanokliks alone.

Time stopped. The shuttle stopped. Prowl did not even dare ventilate. After what had felt like an eternity of screams, there was silence. Silence save for the hiss of cold winds. He looked about, he looked down. There was only him, only him and the mechlings. Under his servo, his creation seemed to shudder. But he was alive. They were alive. As the craft had splinter apart, the tail end, with five rows of seats had stayed together. But there had been no other passengers in these seats. Prowl looked around again, they were alone. There was not a single other mechanism alive. He looked ahead again. Smokescreen and Bluestreak had been seated six rows ahead, and Prowl took a shuddering intake; they should well have been gone.

“We need to go,” Prowl said as his ATS took. The frigid winds lashed at their plating. If they remained exposed like this, they would surely lock up. “We need to find shelter.”

“They’re all gone,” Smokescreen whimpered. “Everyone’s gone. Again!”

“I have you,” Prowl promised. “I will take care of you.”

“You’re optic,” Smokescreen cried as Prowl freed them from the straps that had secured them to their seats, and saved their lives.

“I still have the other one. Bluestreak?”

The mechling said nothing. He stared, face a contorted mask of fear. Prowl crooned. His frame was aching. Shrapnel from the disastrous break up had lashed his plating, some had embedded themselves in his doorwings. Even if he could have reached his doorwings to remove them, Prowl knew better. Though there were no energon arteries within his sensory panels, the veins leaked freely when cut, and he could not afford to lose an excess of energon right now. These mechings needed him alive. His creation needed his frame healthy if he was going to remain well. Smokescreen leapt off his chair like he had been scalded. He hugged Prowl and sobbed into his side. Prowl held him close. Whatever else, no one was ever taking these mechlings from him.

“Bluestreak? I am going to lift you up and carry you, alright?”

“You’re not supposed to lift heavy things when you’re carrying a bitty,” Smokescreen scolded.

“You are right, But Bluestreak is not so heavy.”

Really, he as not. The mechling was at most a late first tier sparkling, not at all too big for Prowl to lift, normally. But it was hard, less hard than awkward. Prowl’s forge jutted out from his protoform, somehow it seemed almost broader now, but then he was always startled by his side, every time he saw himself, and every time he tried to move. Draping Bluestreak over his chassis and forge, Prowl tried to find his balance. Was the wind picking up, or was this his imagination? He looked about for an escape. They were not quite teetering over the precipice but they were precariously close to it. Prowl grabbed Smokescreen’s servo and held it tight. For a moment he considered trying to step between the remnants of the shuttle and the cliff face, but the slightest misstep would mean certain death, and he was not nearly as light on his peds as he had once been.

Instead Prowl led Smokescreen along, as he carried Bluestreak to the back most part of the fuselage that remained, and tested the door. It came as no surprise when the door did not give. Prowl sighed; he was no more enthused at the prospect of trying to wiggle his great mass around the sharp fragment of fuselage, and to somehow avoid falling to his certain death. Perhaps that was his fate, to survive the destruction of the shuttle, against every odd, only to trip over the edge of the abyss. If only he had his rifle. It would be somewhere below them, likely broken to bits on the rocks as the shuttle’s cargo bay had been broken apart. No one was permitted to bring weapons on rounds onboard a transport shuttle. Prowl did not disagree with this regulation but it was certainly not helpful in this instance.

He lowered Bluestreak to the floor next to Smokescreen, and put his whole weight and strength into trying to force the doors. Prowl strained with everything in him until he felt and heard a harsh grinding from his own frame. Pain came a nanoklik later, and he felt to his knees, both servos coming to clutch his forge. As his digits dug in to his protoform, Prowl felt a gap in his forge and he realized immediately what was happening; he had entered emergence. Finding a safe shelter became all the more urgent to Prowl. This shuttle, what remained of it, he did not trust it not to slide off the edge to join the rest of the remains. Prowl curled up on his servos and knees. That that vicious was painful enough to his audios, but the actual sensation of his frame splitting apart hurt even worse. Was emergence supposed to be so painful? It paralyzed him. It stole his intakes. Prowl curled on his side, and the mechlings clung to him. Was it supposed to hurt so much?

They had to get to safety, he thought in a moment of clarity, as his ATS rose above the pain. Or at least some place more secure. Prowl wept. He could not help it, he wept. For deca-cycles Prowl had tried to get to safety. Since he had discovered he was carrying he had planned his escape only to have his leave blocked, and his plans scrapped. Now he was hunched in the back of what little remained of his shuttle, with no idea what at all to do. Prowl would never make the appointment with the medic on Velocitron; he would not make it to Cybertron. There was no medic attending him... no Jazz. As his frame was wracked with sobs, Prowl dragged himself up, his remaining optics blinded by tears, he grabbed hold of the door handle and screamed with all the fear and anguish that had tortured him for the last fifty stellar-cycles. The seal gave, and shuddering with grief and guilt and pain, Prowl shoved it aside, as he did the evacuation slide deployed.

“Smokescreen, I need you to go first?” Prowl asked with a hoarse voice. “Can you do that for me?”

“Yeah,” Smokescreen said. “You’re having the bitty.”

“Soon, too soon. Not in here. It is not safe. Go down the slide, Bravespark. I need you to catch Bluestreak. You can do that for me?”

“I can do that.”

Prowl did not ventilate as he watched Smokescreen line himself up and then just, jump onto the slide. If not fearless, that mechling was defiant in the face of it. He was his now, Prowl knew this with a certainty, even if he had to steal him away. That was for later. Later. Someone would come. Radar would report the downing of the transport, someone would send search and rescue. Autobot? Or Decepticon? It would depend what mountain chain they had crashed into. Friend or foe? Prowl could not truly call either of them friend, though his disgrace was his own. He could not blame the Autobots of their disgust at his action. They thought Jazz had just been given some sort of aphrodisiac. They thought Prowl had taken advantage. It would have been the only way for Prowl get a mech like Jazz to face him. He cried. Jazz.

“Good job, Smokescreen. Be careful now. Catch Bluestreak.”

The younger mechling was curled up in a ball at his side, chewing anxiously on his thumb. Prowl cradled him, as best as he could, tender despite the agony wracking his frame was his protoform continued to pull itself apart. The evacuation valve of his forge was irising open. Already his newling was butting against it, straining the narrow petals of sentio-metallico. It was all coming too fast, and Prowl feared this meant the crash had been that one trauma too many. He felt a growing terror that clawed at his vocalizer that he was going to give emergence to a dead newling. Trying to stay on top of his fear, emergence protocols having already dismissed every attempt by his processor to crash, Prowl kissed the little mech’s cheekplates, and his dented little thumb. Slowly, Bluestreak unfurled and he wrapped his arms around Prowl’s neck, shivering with shock and terror.

“I will be right there after you,” Prowl promised. “I will not leave you.”

“Never?” Bluestreak asked, barely more that a squeak.

“Never.”

It was a promise Prowl believed in his spark he could not break. He helped Bluestreak line himself up just right on the slide, and then nudged him down. Smokescreen caught him with a sweet hug. They would be brothers. Because they would be, they were his. With a servo over his irising forge, Prowl lowered himself to the slide, and made his escape. Wracked with a contraction, he tumbled inelegantly from it, but he was on his servos and knees. He was on solid ground. It froze his plating, but it was a start. Now they needed shelter. The slide? Prowl turn his helm to the shuttle, and considered it. Though he did not trust the wreckage to remain in it, it did serve as a windbreak, if there was nothing else. He turned back to the mountain. There was a cave. Only fifty steps away, it seemed like an impossible distance, but it would be safer than they open air. Would help find them sheltering there? How would it matter if they did not live long enough to be rescued.

Jazz. Prowl gritted his denta as his frame convulsed with the violence of the contraction of his frame. The grinding as his protoform pulled itself apart echoed off the mountain peaks. Would Thunderclash alert Iacon? Would he ask Jazz to be alerted? Would he even notice the shuttle was shot down or would he be too preoccupied with his latest foray against Skyquake to notice? Even if Thunderclash did alert Iacon, Jazz was in deep cover. Even if Iacon cared to alert him, it would be mega-cycles, even orns before he could extricate himself. Hound and Mirage. Trailbreaker. Would they come if they knew? They would. Prowl felt this with a certainty. Jazz would come, and his team would come. If they knew. If. Because the alternative was too terrible to consider, Prowl told himself he had to believe they would come, that they would somehow get glyph and they would come. Prowl might have been the lowest form of dirt to the base of Nova Cronum, those ops cared about him.

“Prowl!” Smokescreen screamed in terror. Prowl whipped about at the sound, and saw a Krystar iron-bear charging them. He stumbled up and threw himself in front of the mechlings.

“Raa!”


	5. Bound

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jazz knows in his spark that Prowl is alive, and he knows that he can find him. It's both a blessing and a curse.
> 
> Prowl's emergence does not go anything close to as planned. But he's not alone anymore.

They stared at him, pityingly. Jazz looked at each face before his optics landed on his originator. Guilt filled him as he reached into his spark. His knees felt weak as he found the piece of Prowl he had forgotten about for nearly a vorn. Enough that he had been a brute. Enough that he had hurt Prowl, fragging him raw in his race to... his race to breed. He had bonded them, like Lockdown had bonded Punch to him. As sick and disgusted with himself as he was, Jazz wrapped his essence around that piece of Prowl and felt its strength and heat. He could almost feel something else, something more, their creation? Or was that just his imagination? Jazz stared at his originator as he clung to the piece of Prowl’s spark he had stolen. It continued to burn strong and true.

“Jazz, Thunderclash confirmed Prowl was on the shuttle,” Mirage said.

“He’s not dead,” Jazz repeated. “He’s not dead. I’d know. He’s not dead.”

“Jazz?” His originator cocked his helm at him.

“He’s not dead,” Jazz looked his originator’s optics and sick with horrific guilt and shame, but also desperate hope. “I bonded us. He’s in my spark. He’s not dead.”

“Jazz...”

“‘M sorry Ori. I turned out just like’m.”

“No!” Punch grabbed Jazz’s face in his servos, and stroked his cheekplates with his thumbs. “Ya listen here, Jazz. Ya ain’t Lockdown’s. From the nanoklik I held ya ‘n my arms ya were mine. Ya were always mine, Jazz.”

“I have to find ‘m.”

Optimus raised a servo to his helm and order search and rescue units to mobilize. If anyone was surprised Optimus had already received news of the crash, they did not respond. They would blame it on the wisdom of the Primes or some such nonsense, instead of the work of Special Operations. Spies never got their due. Somewhere in those mountains, Prowl was alive. Jazz shuddered. Was the bitlet alive? Panic grew in his spark with every passing nanoklik. After all he had gone through, losing the bitlet would devastate Prowl, and Jazz could not bear the thought he face that fear alone. He stalked about Optimus’ office. Give him coordinates. Just give him something, anything, any clue, and Jazz would find Prowl, and Prowl... Prowl would no longer be alone.

“They think they found wreckage in the gorge below Unicron’s Gullet,” Searchlight revealed. He did not look at Jazz. The saboteur had not replaced his armour. While he might not have been disturbed, standing in Prime’s office in his bare protoforms, some mechanisms were more prudish. “Aerial photography show a debris field scattered down the mountain. The winds are too precarious to get any closer right now.”

“He’s not dead,” Jazz said as his kin by code and choice looked at him. “I know. What’re the coordinates?”

“Uh, for the main wreckage?” Searchlight asked.

“All of it,” Jazz replied. “I’ll find’m.”

“But the wind!” Searchlight said, aghast. Jazz almost snarled, almost. Was Prowl’s life worth nothing? “All air units are grounded until they let up.”

“Ain’t conscripting Seekerkin,” Jazz snapped back. “Ain’t trustin’ any o’ ya to get the job done. I’ll find’m.”

“Jazz?” Ricochet asked.

“Ya got a beacon, Raj?”

“Of course.”

“Then let’s go!”

Jazz bolted from Prime’s office, not so much as pausing to ask if he was dismissed. Neither did he pause to replace his armour. There was no point. If any of the Autobots he passed commented or cared, Jazz did not hear them. Prowl was alone in the mountains, alive but in what state? Could he be trapped in the wreckage, slowly leaking out? Could he be stuck in the gorge, being lashed by winds and slowly freezing? Not for much longer. Jazz was not going to wait for clear skies and calm winds. He did not care about the risks; Prowl was worth the risks. Even if none of this madness had passed, Prowl would have been worth the risk. After what he had done, and what he had borne for Jazz’s sake, Prowl was worth the effort, any effort. Jazz would fly into Unicron’s Gullet for him. He would get Prowl back.

“What’re ya planning, Jazz?” Punch asked as they all spilled out into the courtyard.

“‘M gettin’ Prowl,” Jazz said. “Ya know what to do, mechs. Follow the beacon, ‘n I’ll lead ya to Prowl.”

“I’ll find a pilot with more courage than sense,” Mirage replied, holding the already pulsing beacon in his servo. “We’ll be right behind you.”

“Jazz?” Ricochet asked. “What are you doin’?”

“Prime! Ya gott open the dome!”

“Jazz?”

“Time to see if I remember how to fly.”

The shift was quick. Though Jazz had not taken this form in thousands of stellar-cycles, it was familiar to him. His processor had not forgotten the steps. He fell onto his servos and knees. His hindquarters shifted, his legs twisted, his peds extended and split into individual, clawed toes. A tail swished angrily at the base of his spinal struts. As his frame rippled, his digits stretched out and then curled into talons, and Jazz pushed up onto claws and paws. With a flex of his shoulder, his protoform extend. Struts pulled up from his back, and narrow strips of plating extended, and he stretched his wings out wide. With a toss of his helm, Jazz’s mandible stretched out, his optics sharpened. With a loud clash, Jazz brought his beak together and screeched. Mirage slapped the beacon against Jazz’s outer thigh. The device embedded itself in his plating. It stung, but Jazz only snarled. Jazz glanced over to his originator and his brother, but he did not trust himself to search their faceplates. With another shriek he took to the sky.

His frame remembered the mechanics of flight, though Jazz had no doubt he made an inelegant scene. But he did not care what mechanisms thought of his style or his elegance. Above his helm the dome slowly split, and he half shrieked, and half roared in triumph. As soon as the gap was wide enough, he should between the massive segments and soared into the sky. He stumbled a little in the sky as Jazz had to remember how to navigate the air currents as he turned into them, and flew north and west. With each flap of his powerful doorwings, Jazz remembered. Once upon a time this had been his favourite form, both for the style and the strength of it. It had taken him quartexes to master the transformation, and longer still to learn to fly. When had soared over the jagged cliffs of Archon, Jazz had felt his first taste of freedom.

The gap between him and his twin had widened then. Ricochet had not been able to cope with Jazz’s devotion to training in his Amalgus abilities. Though he knew his brother could change, and had forms he had changed into with some regularity in their youth, Jazz knew his brother had never taken to the air. If we were meant to fly, we would have emerged with wings. That’s what Ricochet had said. Jazz shrieked as the mountains came into view, his spark surged, and Jazz flapped his wings harder. There was no missing the bond now, and Jazz dived into the mountains. He would follow it. He would find Prowl.

Harsh, cold winds tossed Jazz back and he shrieked with temper as he flapped harder. Seeing the sharp peaks of terrain that so remained fangs, Jazz turned, fighting the wind, and dove for Unicron’s gullet. The smell of death reached him as he descended closer and closer to the ground. A pack of lupinoids scattered as Jazz landed with a shriek and a hard flap of his doorwings. They had already made short work of the greyed remains scattered in the snow. Had these frame parts been scattered in the crash, or had the lupinoids ripped them from the corpses? Though the stench of energon and mechfluid was everywhere, as Jazz scented the air, he did not smell Prowl. Still, he looked. He nudged every bit of scorched debris to ensure Prowl was not trapped, or even sheltering below. Jazz found more broken frames, but he did not find Prowl.

A part of Jazz though he should cover the remains, those lupinoids would be back as soon as he took flight. But he could only thing of Prowl, and the bitlet he was carrying. Perhaps he would lay a wreath for the dead in the future, but for now his focus had to be on the living, not the dead. Jazz reached into his spark again and held that piece of Prowl as sacred. He was alive. Nothing else could matter. Down at the base of Unicron’s gullet, the winds were to strong for Jazz to leap into the air, and he snarled. Helm tipped back, Jazz scented the air. Nothing by cold and death. Stretching up against the gorge’s wall, Jazz dragged himself up. His claws dug into the mountain side. This would have been easier in his root mode, with his magnets, but he would freeze too quickly without any armour insulation. Meter by meter, Jazz dragged himself up. Higher and higher until he gained enough height to again throw himself into the sky.

Jazz shrieked, desperation sinking in. As he turned about in the air he realized the shuttle’s debris was truly scattered everywhere. Death was all around him. But not Prowl. Scenting the air Jazz flew about. Prowl was not dead. He knew. He knew. Desperation turned into despair and Jazz began to wonder if he, and his spark could be wrong. Scanning the skyline, Jazz spotted something different, something bigger. Close to the peek of one of the Manganese Mountain chains smaller mountains, overlooking the trail of destruction, was a large chunk of debris. Hope clawed at Jazz’s spark and he flapped his wings, bringing him closer. Closer. The scent of death reached him, and Jazz sagged again, but then he caught it, just a whisper in the wind.

Prowl. Prowl. It was not his imagination now that he had caught it the smell of Prowl filled his beak, he tasted it on his glossa, and Jazz shrieked as he flew towards the debris. As he came close, Jazz heard a scream. It echoed out into the mountains and Jazz screeched with rage. He landed on the outcrop, next to the tail debris. The scent of Prowl was everywhere, and he was not alone. Mixed in with the scent of the living was death. Something had come for Prowl, and its energon was scattered on the snow covered rock. His plating flared with pride. His mate was stronger than any Autobot could imagine. Not his mate. Yes, his mate. The bond was there, and the bond was true. If Prowl wanted freedom, Jazz would give him it, he would not need to steel himself away as Punch had been forced to. But Prowl was his mate. Strong and selfless... his mate... _screamed_ as something else roared. No!

***

Prowl stepped back quickly, keeping the mechlings behind him. Though the contractions of his forge nearly brought him to his knees, Prowl had to keep his peds. There was debris everywhere. As the Krystar iron-bear stood up on his hind legs and roared again, Prowl wrenched a piece of twisted metal from where it had lodge it the rocks, and held it in his servos. As the iron-bear roared again, Prowl screamed and flared his doorwings, making himself as large as he could. When the iron-bear slashed at him with powerful, incomprehensibly large paws, Prowl smacked the beast with his makeshift club, screaming as he did. The iron-bear snarled at him and seemed to stand even taller, but Prowl did not cower, cowering meant death. As the beast lunged down at him, Prowl knocked him across the helm with his club, knocking him to the ground. Dazed the beast was slow to stand, but he stood. When he turned on Prowl again, Prowl forced the gagged metal he was wielding into the iron-bear’s chassis, and drove it into his spark. The best fell dead, and Prowl felt to his knees. He dropped the club and held his forge.

“Prowl?” Smokescreen held his shoulder and shook him lightly. Prowl straightened enough to reach for the mechling, and then the other and to hold them before his frame contracted again.

“The cave. We need to hide there,” Prowl said. It was probably the beast’s gave.

“Can you walk?” Smokescreen asked.

“I have to.”

Prowl hunched over and groaned as he forced himself to move. He did not know if it was time to push, and to use the internal mechanisms of his forge to evacuate his newling. Was he dilated enough? Did his frame still need to open further. Each shift in his forge produce more painful grinding. It seemed to quick, it seemed like too much but Prowl did not know if this was normal. Having never seen a medic, having been too caught up just trying to survive Prowl had never learned more than the most basic details of emergence. As he experienced another contraction, Prowl whimpered, but it was more from fear than pain. He had no idea what he was doing. He had no idea what to expect. He was terrified.

Thank Primus the cave was empty. It seemed like it must have belonged to the iron-bear. There was a soft nest at the centre, and Prowl wasted no time urging the mechlings into it. They were shivering with cold, and more than a little shock and fear. Prowl dragged every blanket from the hoard in his subspace and wrapped he mechlings in them, and piled the rest into the nest. When he tried to get comfortable, to get warm, and to rest, Prowl could only writhe. He tried not to thrash, or to frighten the mechlings, but it was so painful, it was so much and he could not just stay still. As he writhed, Prowl touched his forge’s irised vent and he tried to guess if it was time to push. Under his servo, he felt his creation, in ovoloid form, butting against his palm. Was it time?

“I’m hungry,” Bluestreak sniffled.

Though he was in agony, Prowl was quickly distracted by the demands of his frame, and he pulled himself up on his knees. He kiss Bluestreak’s helm, and then Smokescreen’s. If they were going to maintain their temperatures at all, they needed to keep fuelled. Prowl remembered the Sonic Canyons, and he remembered how Jazz had opened the veins of his prey. The iron-bear was meters away. Not far and yet, so far. After soothing the orphans, Prowl dragged himself out of the nest. He was beyond walking now, and could only crawl on his servos and knees back out into the cold. Clenching his denta, Prowl crawled over to the iron-bear reached for the large beast he had killed, and dragged back towards the cave. Straining with the weight, Prowl groaned as he dragged it just inside the cave’s opening. Baring his claws, Prowl cut into the beast’s protoform until he found an artery. There was a little as he opened the line.

“Come, here, sweetsparks. You need to drink from his lines.”

“Gross!” Smokescreen exclaimed.

“It will not hurt you. It will help you keep warm. I promise it does not taste terrible.”

“You did this before?”

“When I was trapped in the Sonic Canyon,” Prowl held his forge and groaned. “Jazz brought me a pneumalion.”

“Is Jazz your bitty’s geni?” Smokescreen asked.

“Yes. Yes.”

“Is he going to save us?”

“He’ll come. As soon as he learns, he’ll come.”

The mechlings were not enthused by Prowl’s offering of the iron-bear’s energon but Prowl crooned and cajoled, and hunger won out. They drank their fill, and Prowl pulled them back into the nest, back into the blankets. Prowl tried so hard not to scare them with his groaning and writhing but he could not help it. Was it time to push? As Prowl felt his creation nudging at his opening again, Prowl strained. His back bowed with the effort but his creation made no progress. He continued to nose at Prowl’s vent. Digging his digits into the nest, Prowl tore bits away with his claws as he struggled and strained. Despite what felt like joors, Prowl made no progress and he collapsed in the nest, exhausted by his efforts. Smokescreen and Bluestreak reached for him, and nuzzled his helm. They were so sweet. His optics dimmed; he just needed to rest for a while.

“Rrr.”

Prowl’s optics shot open as a the cave opening was filled with the hulking form of another iron-bear. Laying helpless on his back, Prowl shuffled back, he tried to shield the mechlings, and his forge. He was exhausted. There was no weapon to reach for, all he could do was backup, and up. A contraction wracked his frame, and Prowl groaned with helpless pain. The iron-bear snarled over him, and raised his great paw. At his back, the sparklings cried out with fright, and Prowl screamed with pain and terror. An inhuman shriek echoed through the cave, and Prowl whined as he went limp. He could not fight this iron-bear, let alone some avian beast. Yet if he did not fight these mechlings would die, he would die. The bear reached for him, and Prowl tried to shuffle back, but it caught him by his angle, it pulled him. Prowl screamed.

Suddenly the iron-bear released his hold as he was attacked from behind. As the iron-bear roared the avian... a griffin tore at his back and helm with lethal talons and claws, shrieking with rage. The iron-bear struggled but as he raised his helm, the griffin ducked his beak under it, and tore it’s throat open. Energon splattered the wall of the cave. In a few nanokliks, the iron-bear bled dry. Stained with its energon, the griffin panted, he turned his great helm, with that terrible beak, and looked down at Prowl. It took a step into the nest and Prowl struggled to even get up on his arms. He needed to protect the mechlings.

“Leave Prowl alone!” Smokescreen screamed. As he did, or perhaps the beast was already changing before the mechling could scream. Before optics, the griffin transformed. It took a moment for Prowl to realize that this was not a stranger.

“Jazz!” He cried, and then wailed as his frame bowed with another contraction. They were coming faster now, almost one on top of the other but Prowl could not bring his creation into the world.

“Sweet Primus, Prowler ‘m here,” Jazz cursed and he jumped into the nest. “Yer face. Oh, sweetspark ya took a beatin’.”

“I cannot...”

“Prowl?”

“I am not strong enough,” he groaned, and twisted in the nest. “I cannot evacuate him.”

“I have ya, Prowl,” Jazz promised. “I’ll take care o’ ya. I swear.”

“You came!” Smokescreen gasped. “Prowl said you’d come!”

“I would climb into the Pit for ‘m,” Jazz promised. “Cuddle up wit yer brother. Prowl’s gotta have the bitties now. So I need ya to keep still for’m.”

“He’s not my brother. We aren’t kin,” Smokescreen said, Prowl looked him with a pained, but loving optic. The mechlings pulled Bluestreak, wrapped in his own blanket, into his lap, and Jazz quickly wrapped another around them.

“Kin don’t gotta mean code,” Jazz said.

“Jazz,” Prowl whimpered. He did not know that he could survive, he hurt so badly. His energy was spent, but he wanted to tell Jazz, to beg him to keep the mechlings together if he did not survive.

“No last rites,” Jazz crooned. “Yer gonna be a’ight, Prowler. Helps comin’. Lemme see where y’re at. I’ll help ya.”

Prowl could not have fought him off if he tried to, he was quite simply bled dry of energy. The relief he felt having Jazz at his side was indescribable. He moaned as Jazz examined his forge, groaned as their creation butted against his palm. Everything hurt, like he and been ripped open, but it was still not quite enough. His forge contracted under Jazz’s servos and he whined again. It hurt; the pain was never ending. Jazz crooned at him and pulled something from his subspace. When his servos returned to Prowl’s chassis, they were coated in lubricants, and he poured still more inside of him. Though it hurt, Jazz’s act of massaging the lubricants into his opening brought some relief. As the next contraction caught Prowl off guard and he arched his back, and his creation actually bulged from his vent, as the contraction bled off, his creation sank back down into his forge.

“Jazz!” He whined.

“He’s trying to come out backwards,” Jazz said. “It’s a’ight. I’ll guide’m out. Take a deep intake, Prowler. Push with the contraction. Push!”

Blinding, Prowl strained, clenching his internals he tried to evacuation his creation. As his newling crowned again, Jazz got hold of him, and though Prowl sagged back down as the contraction ebbed, His creation was solidly lodged in his vent. The pressure was intense. Another contraction had Prowl bowing as Jazz urged him to push. He groaned as his creation strained his forge’s vent as the widest part passed out of him. There was a wet popped, and Prowl collapsed with shock as he looked up as so the ovoid form of his creation cradled so sweetly in Jazz’s servos. As Prowl watched, his creation unfurled in Jazz’s arms. All over silver now, his newling’s audial fins looked to big for his frame. Prowl smiled, full of love, but the smile morphed into a grimace as it felt like something was thrashing inside of him.

“Slag, he got impatient,” Jazz cursed. “Sweetsparks, hold ‘m for me, okay?”

Prowl moaned as something... Not something, another newling, another creation thrashed inside of him. He down at his chassis and saw a servo sticking out, and he screameed. It hurt, and as he suffered through another contraction he felt pain, but it was not his pain. His frame was squeezing over his creation. Unfurled it caught his little limbs, and hurt. Jazz placed the newling already emerged into the mechlings’ arms and without warning reached into Prowl’s vent. It was shocking, even painful. He groaned as Jazz was crouched over him, elbows’ deep, shifting things about inside of him.

“Hurts,” he whined.

“Bare it for me, Prowler,” Jazz said. “I got’m lined up. ‘M gonna guide’m out wit the next contraction. Don’t push, whatever ya do, don’t push, Prowl.”

It was a struggle but Prowl bit his lip as he ignored the primal urge to push. As his frame rippled, Prowl watched as Jazz pulled his second creation free from his forge. This one was already wailing before his helm popped free. In the mechlings’ arms his brother wailed in response. Prowl’s feared for him, for what his frame might have done to him after he unfurled, but he also felt so much relief. His creation had cried, so he lived. As he continued to wail, Prowl watched Jazz look him over. Love surged in his spark as Jazz kissed his small helm. Though this one had audial horns like Jazz, and not the fins of his brother, they still looked too big for his frame. He was perfect. They were perfect.

“They’re perfect, Prowl,” Jazz said, quickly wrapping the newling he was holding in a blanket, and he lowered the newling into Prowl’s arms. “Ya did a beautiful job.”

“I made a mess of everything,” Prowl replied. Tears were falling from his optics but the guilt and embarrassment were overwhelmed by love. Jazz retrieved their first emerged from the mechlings, and after wrapping him in a blanket, placed him in Prowl’s arms. Prowl loved them. With every fibre of his being, he loved his creations. Twins. If he had ever scene a medic, he would have been prepared. If he had ever felt safe enough to seek help.

“Ya did a beauiful job. Against every odd, ya carried ‘n emerged two perfect newlings.”

“Jazz?” Hound’s voice called from the cave’s opening and Prowl felt enormous relief. “Prowl. Thank Primus. Ratchet! In here! They’re alive!”

“Out of my way,” the medic ordered. Prowl withered as Ratchet, the Autobots’ infamous CMO looked down at him. “You don’t do anything the easy way, Prowl.”

“Ah!” Prowl dimmed his optics and shuttered in pain as his forged contracted in on itself, reverting to its pre-kindling schematics. It felt like it was contracting around something. A mass?

“Take the newlings and I’ll see to Prowl,” Ratchet ordered and Prowl did not resist as Jazz took their newlings. He did not have the strength to resist anyways. Ratchet’s scanners ran over Prowl’s frame as his forge continued to contract round the mass. “Well scrap, you aren’t done yet Prowl, but your frame thinks it is. I’m going to have to forcibly dilate you, and manual extract the newling.”

“Another?” Prowl gasped.

“Yer serious, Ratchet?” Jazz asked.

“Praxians have a higher rate of triplet carryings of any frametype. They’re singularly suited to carrying multiples to terms.”

“I am just a cold-construct,” Prowl groaned. He never felt right be compared to a real Praxian.

“Vector Sigma wasn’t tossing out sparks all willy nilly,” Ratchet said as he gathered his tools. “You didn’t get a Seekerkin spark for a minibot frame. Being constructed cold doesn’t make you less Praxian. I’m going to manually open your forge, and lock it in place, Prowl. Then I’m going to reach inside you and extract him. I can’t have you moving so I’m going to lock your motor functions now.”

“Is he alive?”

“He’s alive,” Ratchet said.

The medic applied an inhibitor to Prowl’s neck and his frame went limp. Jazz move about him, sitting at Prowl’s helm, and letting him see the mechlings he had already evacuated. For a fleeting moment Prowl saw the giant speculum Ratchet was now fitting into the narrowing vent of his forge. Immediately he began to crank it open. Prowl felt enormous pain was his frame resisted the medic’s tool but the medic was stronger, or his equipment was and he locked the speculum in place once he had forced Prowl’s vent open as wide as it could go. The pressure was intense, and Prowl found it hard to ventilate, but Jazz was there, soothing him with sweet strokes to his helm. Though he could have turned away or dimmed his optics, Prowl watched as Ratchet reached arms even bigger than Jazz’s inside of his forge. It hurt. He reached so deep Prowl thought he could feel it in his spark but as he tugged gently, his arms withdrew from Prowl, and before Prowl’s optics pulled his third creation into the world. With careful digits, Ratchet unfurled the newling, he cried. Prowl cried as Ratchet draped him over his chassis.

“Let’s close you up,” Ratchet said. “I want to get you out of this cave and into my medbay. You took a lot of shrapnel.”

“And the mechlings.”

“I’ll do a full work up on your newlings, Prowl.”

“Please, yes but no, _them_.”

“Found yourself some foundlings, Prowl?”

“They have no kin,” Prowl said. “So they will be mine.”

The evacuation off the mountain went more smoothly that Prowl would have expected. Hound and Ratchet shoved the shuttle’s tail off the ledge, making more room for a small starship to come in to land. Prowl realized where he recognized it from when the pilot stepped off. Wheeljack was one of the Autobots most maverick Wreckers. He tickled Smokescreen’s belly as he loaded the mechling into the back of his craft, alongside Prowl who was now wrapped up in several blankets, and cradling his triplets to his chassis. He repeated the manoeuvre with Bluestreak. Ratchet climbed in after to keep an optic on Prowl, of course. What about Jazz? Prowl whined. He did not mean to but he stared at Jazz and whined low in his engine. Ratchet made a sound and Prowl wanted to wither up and cry.

“I don’t suppose you can shrink into something small?” Ratchet asked. “I don’t want him stressed.”

“Ya got it!”

Prowl did not see the transformation. He heard Wheeljack chuckle before he bent down and lifted a small and slinky creature, and placed him in the hold. The mechlings giggled as Photovoltaic pussycat Jazz slinked through the hold and curled up next to Prowl’s helm. There was a strange electrode stuck to his back and leg. From the way in dug into Jazz’s plating, Prowl thought it must have heard. But as if he was reading his thoughts, or perhaps Jazz as reading his face, Jazz purred and nuzzled his helm. It was familiar. The affectionate sound and gesture reminded Prowl of the Sonic Canyons. He dimmed his optics and let himself drift offline.

  
  



	6. Honour

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Save in Iacon, Prowl and Jazz have a moment to go over what has passed between them.

Triplets. Jazz could hardly believe it, but as he rested his helm on Jazz’s shoulder, he watched the newlings wriggled lightly in Prowl arms. They looked perfect. Considering Prowl had received no pre-emergence care, it seemed a little like a miracle that he had carried them this long, and that they had come out of it so well. Prowl had not come out of it nearly so well. Ratchet would probably find a host of things to complain about, and he would put every one of them right. If Optimus did not rescind Prowl’s dishonourable discharge, Jazz did not know what he would do. He did not think he could follow a commander who punished selflessness. If Prowl did not want to accept Prime’s apology, Jazz could not imagine faulting him. The bots had turned on him, imagining the worst of him, merely because he had saved Jazz’s life. Would they have turned on him so badly if they had known that Jazz was the monster. He supposed they would know soon enough, he had transformed into a griffin in the middle of the courtyard. Perhaps they would turn on him now.

He could take it. Jazz had been hated by mechanisms that mattered considerably more to him than any random grunt. The only reason he feared it at all was Prowl. Prowl would blame himself for Jazz outting himself; Prowl had already taken on enough guilt. The mech had been through more than enough. Soon the newlings would need to fuel, but for now Prowl recharged, and so did the foundlings he had claimed. Jazz wanted to hear the story, but it might have been nothing extraordinary. So late in his term, Prowl would have been nesting, and see a pair of vulnerable sparkling Praxians would probably have triggered the urge to claim them for his own. No one was going to argue, or at least no one was going to be heard over his screams if they tried it.

With five little ones, three who would mostly likely be fuelling from their originator’s well, Prowl was going to need support. Jazz prayed his would be welcome. He purred, the instincts of a Photovoltaic pussycat bleeding into his own, as much to comfort himself as to reassure the recharging Prowl. Prowl had tolerate so much, an unwanted bond could be that step too far. Weathering a rut, engaging in interface, that was enough, still too much. Jazz purred, and Prowl’s helm turned gently against his, and Jazz nuzzled him, he scented himself. Had he ever managed to see Prowl face to face, Jazz would have recognized what had happened. Nanites from his frame had embedded themselves in Prowl’s protoform. Any Amalgus would know Prowl had been claimed. The only Amalgii Jazz knew of with any certainty were Ricochet and Lockdown. He wondered how many he had met but had never known.

Prowl stirred as the Jackhammer came in to land. Jazz nuzzle him a final time before he leapt out of the ship, and returned to his root mode. He returned to collected the mechlings, who were so exhausted from all they had gone through that they did not even stirred. It was processor boggling just what Prowl had managed. Jazz had not missed the remains of the iron-bear on the floor of the cave. Blinded in one optic, heavy with spark if not in active emergence, Prowl had fought of an iron-bear, not just fought it off but killed it, and used it to give the foundlings he had claimed what they needed. They had been so brave, these little darlings. Jazz loved them dearly already. As he reached for the littlest one, a servo touched his shoulder. When Jazz turned his helm, he saw his twin.

“Lemme help ya,” Ricochet said, and he held out his arms. Jazz smiled and placed the younger mechling in Ricochet’s arms.

“Thanks, Ric,” Jazz said. “Where’s Ori?”

“On the warpath. It came out that the CMO in Nova Cronum’s the one that leaked this slag. Thunderclash was tryin’ to keep it quite, for Prowl’s sake.”

“If he cared about Prowl he should o’ respected his sacrifice.”

“Ori’s been tearin’ a strip off ‘m, ‘n off anyone he hears talkin’ scrap ‘bout your mech. Or ya. He’s a force o’ nature. Prime’s just lettin’m have at it.”

“Knows a losin’ battle I guess. Comm’m for me? Mine fritzes a bit after I shift.”

“That’s why ya got that thing embedded in yer leg?” Ricochet asked.

“Yeah, it was ‘Raj’s idea. But Wheeljack worked his magic.”

“I don’t know how you can fly around with one of his ticking time bombs embedded in your protoform,” Ratchet said. An EMS team appeared with a stretcher and Jazz retrieved the elder mechling so Ratchet could attend Prowl and the mechlings.

“Ain’t blown up yet. Hurts like the Pit but we ain’t found anythin’ that does the job that don’t gotten be stabbed into my platin’.”

“Do you need to take it out?” Ratchet asked.

“Focus on Prowl. Hound’ll take care o’ it.”

“Why can’t ya remove it yerself,” Ricochet asked.

“If I go feral, I can’t just knock it off. They can find me before I get myself killed.”

“It’s for yer sake,” Ricochet murmured. “Not so they can track ya if they think yer goin’ rogue.”

“That’s right. My team cares about me. Or I wouldn’t’ve trusted ‘m wit what I am. The same goes for Prowl. Cause he cared about me ‘n my team ‘n wouldn’t sanction a mission he thought’d be suicide.”

“Speaking of taking it out,” Hound announced his presence. “I’ll take care of that.”

Jazz hissed as the beacon was removed. The wounds made by the four prongs leaked freely. His friend applied a quick patch. Ricochet winced at the procedure, but for Jazz it was a familiar ritual, just a part of coming home. Hound lingered. He cared about Prowl too, Jazz realized. Him and Mirage, and Trailbreaker. They had gone with what he had wanted, let themselves be sworn to secrecy but when they had discovered he was in trouble they had been quick to break the vow, to save him from the hole he had dug. If any of them had ended up in Nova Cronum and seen the state Prowl had been in, they would have helped him. Because he was an operative, and secrets were sacred to him, Jazz understood the choices they had made. Because they had not been wrong with how he did feel knowing what he had done to Prowl, Jazz could not truly fault him. If not for Prowl and the newlings, Jazz would likely throw himself into the field, to burn off some of the self-hate but they needed him. Or Jazz hoped they did.

“Coming out,” Ratchet declared.

Jazz stepped out of the way, but he did not go far. Ricochet stood next to him, the most familial they had been in so long. With Wheeljack’s help, Ratchet eased Prowl onto the waiting gurney without jostling him too much. From the brightest of his remaining optic, Jazz could see he was alert. When Prowl saw him and Ricochet, he frowned just so slightly. Of course he would, Ricochet was a stranger to Prowl. Cocooned in the blankets, Prowl could not move and seeing a stranger holding the mechling he had claimed must have been distressing, but he was trying to be stoic. Jazz stroked his helm.

“My brother,” he said, reassuring Prowl. The fact that he was stoic often, did not mean Prowl did not hurt. That was the mistake many had made, that he had made in the beginning. Jazz would always offer support. Prowl would not have to bear any of this scrap alone again. “We’ll follow ya to the medbay.”

Fix It was waiting in the medbay when they arrived. He looked between the newlings and the older mechlings and called in Lifeline. The medic from Paradron arrived with her attendant and quickly took in the scene. First Aid was at Ratchet’s side as Prowl was transfrerred to a treatment berth, and prodded by a dozen more scans. Prowl started to tremble as First Aid took the first of the triplets to Lifeline to be examined. As soon as he was separated from his origin, the bitlet wailed and his brothers did as well. It broke Jazz’s spark to see Prowl fighting not to break down as each of his creations was taken to be examined. As Lifeline examined the newlings, they kicked and cried. They calmed, just a little when they were reunited in a single containment berth. Two, the first two clung to each other as they whimpered. Their little brother covered his face and whined.

“I’m taking Prowl into surgery,” Ratchet declared. “I need to get this shrapnel out, and these wounds cleaned up. Replacing the optic will have to wait until everyone’s more settled.”

“Can I talk to’m first?” Jazz asked. Ratchet nodded his helm. Jazz left Smokescreen with Fix It to begin his health examine, and crouched next to Prowl’s berth. Prowl turned his helm to him.

“I am sorry, Jazz.”

“Please don’t be,” Jazz cupped his cheek as he crooned. “I owe you my life. I’ll keep our bitties safe while Ratchet takes care o’ ya.”

“I did not want you to be burdened,” Prowl said.

“‘M not,” Jazz insisted, and how could he feel anything but love and exasperation for this mech. “‘M blessed.”

Leaving Prowl was difficult, was knowing it was Ratchet caring for him, Jazz knew Prowl would be treated right. Once he had recovered some, Ratchet was going to give him the glossa lashing of a lifetime, and to be fair, Jazz would be giving him one as well. Prowl had cared so little for himself that he had put himself and their triplets in harms way, not once but countless times. For his sake, Jazz realized, for him. Even his discharge had been for Jazz. To the bitter end he had protected the team from taking any blame, and he had never once revealed what Jazz was. He had let himself be railroaded, after being terrorized for so many stellar-cycles. Perhaps it had been a relief by that point, at least then he had be able to escape. Or he had thought he had been able. Glyph reached him that the only reason Prowl’s shuttle had been reported as downed so quickly was because Thunderclash had personally been monitoring it, and he had reported the situation to Jazz’s division because he believe Jazz had the right to know. Maybe Jazz would still murder him. Images of Prowl caught up in the sea of battle, trying to hide his condition, trying to direct the battle he could not see, trying to survive danced throughout Jazz’s procressor. They tortured Jazz, but it was nothing like the torture Prowl had endured. His orginator entered the medbay and Jazz could not stop himself from falling into his arms, and sheltering there.

“Everythin’ll be good,” Punch said, stroking Jazz’s helm.

“Ric says ya been terrorizin’ the scrapsuckers.”

“They’ll be more for you to terrorize. I understand there were some malfunctions all o’er base. Showers, energon dispenser. I don’t think I was the only one terrorizin’em.”

“‘Raj probably.”

“I’m finished wit’em,” Fix It declared. His accent not so pronounced as Punch’s or Jazz’s own. Jazz had not bee raised in Polihex but he had listened to his originator’s voice, and let it flow over him, and he made that his own voice. “Hard to believe these two were just through a shuttle crash.”

“Your mech claimed these two?” Punch asked softly. “Praxian orphans. As if they hadn’t already been through enough.”

“How come you can turn into a griffin?” The elder mechling asked. The younger one was back in Ricochet’s arms, chewing on his thumb and holding on to Ricochet for dear life.

“‘Cause ‘m somethin’ called an Amalgus,” Jazz explained. “It was the best way to find Prowl quick.”

“You killed that iron-bear. Prowl showed us how to drink energon out of the one he killed. He said you showed him how.”

“Oh... I don’t remember. But I supposed I must’ve.”

“Why was Prowl going off world? Why weren’t you with him. Didn’t you know he was having bitties?”

“I didn’t.... I didn’t know. Prowl was tryin’ to protect me.”

“Prowl protected us.”

“He’s good at that, ain’t he? Will ya tell me y’re designation?”

“I’m Smokescreen. He’s Bluestreak. Bluestreak usually talks more...”

“Sometimes we get quiet after we get real scared.”

“Are we going to have to go on another shuttle?” Smokescreen asked, and his voice cracked and tears fell down his cheekplates. Jazz scooped him up and rocked him in his arms.

“Never. Ya don’t gotta go anywhere ‘cause yer stayin’ wit Prowl.”

“But he’s got _three_ bitties. He won’t really want us.”

“Oh Smokey, Prowl’s never gonna let anyone take ya. Don’t matter how many bitties he had. He claimed ya.”

“What about you?” Smokescreen asked, wrapping his arms around Jazz’s neck. “They’re your bitties too. You’re not gonna want us too.”

“Sweetspark, as long as Prowl let’s me I claim ya too, it’d be my honour to be yer genitor. Come on. Let me introduce ya to Punch, my Ori. ‘N Ricochet my brother. They can be yer grand-ori, ‘n uncle.”

“Such a bravespark,” Punch crooned as he took the invitation to approached. “I promise ya, darlin’, that love don’t have limits. We don’t run out.”

Lifeline’s tests were taking so long that Jazz was in turmoil. Cuddling Prowl’s foundlings soothed him, to a point. But he kept looking back and staring at the medic as she ran scan after scan. At one point she called Fix It over, and they conferred. Having his brother and origin there helped. Seeing these foundling basking in the affection they were being offered only fed his conviction in the rightness of it all. Finally, and it really felt like an eternity, Lifeline pushed the containment berth, with three perfect little newlings, whining piteously, over to where he and his family had been waiting with the mechlings. They were swaddled in blankets, their protoforms soft and fragile. It would be a vorn before it was strong enough to bear armour plating, or to receive paint nanites. Until they they needed to handle with care, even after of course, but the first vorn of life was the most vulnerable.

“You have split-sparks and a fraternal triplet,” Lifeline revealed. “They are remarkably developed. There are usually concern with premature emergence with carryings of multiples.”

“Prowl carried to term,” Jazz said.

“That’s rare! I understand there were complications in emergence. One of the mechlings unfurled the forge?”

“Yeah. Is he a’ight?”

“He suffered a minor break in his forearm. I’ve already knitted it. His strut shouldn’t even show a scar as he matures. Evacuating split-sparks is often complicated. They don’t like to be separated.”

“He was reachin’ outta Prowl for his brother,” Jazz explained. “When I got there Prowl was fightin’ off a second iron-bear ‘n in active emergence. He was outta energy. Been at it for joors, I think. First bitty was breech. I had to extract the second after he unfurled ‘n the third was set real far back ‘n Prowl’s forge was contractin’ back wit ‘m still inside. Ratchet had to do a full manual extraction. Nothin’ ‘bout Prowl’s emergence, nothin’ bout his carryin’s gone right.”

“All things considered the fact that you have three healthy mechlings is something of a miracle.”

“Can I hold’em?” Jazz asked.

“Fix It has Prowl’s room set up. Let’s get everyone comfortable while Ratchet finishes up with him.”

“He’s a’ight?”

“Ratchet will need to replace his optic. But it’s more important now for the newlings to take their first fuel from him.”

Fix It had converted a double room into a large treatment room for a young family. A large medberth sat centred on the back wall. Against the left most wall were small berths for the mechlings. A large containment berth, better suited to housing three newlings was sitting to the right, ready to be magnetized to the medberth once Prowl was in place. Chairs for company took up much of the rest of the space. It was as homely as Ratchet would ever allow one of his treatment rooms to be. But he must have thought a new originator did not need to be left isolated.

“Did ya wanna hold’em too?” Jazz asked his brother and his origin. It was not an olive branch. Or perhaps it was.

“What do ya say, Blue?” Ricochet said to the little one who was not in any hurry to be separated from a safe adult. “Why don’t ya sit wit me ‘n we can hold one o’ yer bitlet brothers?”

“Okay,” Bluestreak replied in a soft voice. It was the first glyph Jazz had heard him speak, and he hoped it was a sign the mechling could rally. Jazz had no trouble identifying which of the bitlets were split-sparks and which was the singleton. He took the singleton, the one who had nearly not emerged, rocked him and kissed his helm, and placed him in his brother’s arms after he and Blue were safely seated.

“These two like stayin’ together,” Jazz said as he lifted his twins from the cot, one at a time, taking a moment with each one to love on them, and then placing them in his originator’s arms.

Jazz picked up Smokescreen and sat down with him for a bit of a cuddle. His originator’s optics lit up with love. He looked to his brother who was speaking softly to Bluestreak, telling him how to best support a newling their age. It was an untold blessing having them here. Something he never would have imagined ever happening. Had he ever imagined something like this happening, he would not have imagined his brother coming to take care of him. He would have imagined Punch coming, but eventually, not right away. Jazz would never have imagined them dropping everything, leaving every t to come to be with him. Perhaps they had not been as estranged as Jazz had imagined, and perhaps the hate he felt towards what he was had clouded his optics more than he had realized. The door opened and Ratchet pushed Prowl in.

There as a patch over his destroyed optic, to keep the wound clean until Ratchet could replace the optic. All the many bits of shrapnel were gone, and in their place small welds. Prowl’s forge had contracted back down, flat or mostly flat. Considering he had carried triplets to term, the fact that it did not lie perfectly flat was not surprising in the slightest. He was as handsome a mech as ever, maybe more so because Jazz could not help but look at him through different optics. Of course, Jazz had wanted Prowl from the first moment they had fought. There had been something about the mech, his processor and his conviction that Jazz had found tantalizing. But learning what he had from Prowl about how he had come to exist, and how he was trying to learn to be something different, it had not been appropriate to ask Prowl out. Maybe down the road, he had thought. Shockwave had stolen that. Jazz had interfaced, and bonded to Prowl and he did not remember. That annoyed the living Pit out of him.

“Jazz, love why don’t ya bring the sweet bitties to their ori,” Punch said after Ratchet had gotten Prowl settled into the medberth he would not be leaving for a little while. “I know they’ve been missin’em.”

“Please,” Prowl said. “Thank you, Sir.”

“Punch. ‘M Jazz’s origin.”

“Of course, Prowler,” Jazz crooned. Smokescreen slipped off his lap so he could stand. He gathered the twins first, because Punch was closer and carried them together, over to Prowl. There were tears in Prowl’s optics as Jazz placed the bitlets in his arms. As the tears fell, Jazz leaned in and kissed the corner of his remaining optic, and stroked the mechlings’ helms. “These two are splitsparks, Prowl. And healthy as can be.”

“He was not badly hurt?” Prowl asked as he tenderly held his second emerged. “I felt his pain.”

“He had a broken arm but Lifeline already knit it. She didn’t think they’ll be any trace of the break on the strut as he grows up. He was in too big of a hurry to follow his twin.”

“Impatient,” Prowl said, cradling his creation. He turned to his first emerged and cradled him too. “And you just had to come your own way.”

“This is the master of evasion,” Jazz said, after collecting their third from his brother and Blue.

“Dear one,” Prowl murmured. “I have not done well by you.”

“Prowl,” Punch said. Jazz watched his originator stand as he remained at Prowl’s side, and step up to the end of Prowl’s berth. “Y’ve done some remarkable things. Ya saved my creation, at yer own expense. Ya protected ‘m ‘n his team at the expense o’ yer honour. Ya saved these sweet foundlings from the shuttle crash, ‘n ya saved ‘em from an iron-bear, while in emergence, ‘n still had the sense to give’em the energon from its lines to give’em strength. When another iron-bear attacked, when ya were worn to yer struts, ya fought on. After leadin’ battles from the front, ya still managed to carry triplets to term. If ya’d done a fraction o’ this wit any success ya would be remarkable. But ya did all o’ it. Y’re a marvel. From now on, though, I want ya to take care o’ yerself better.”

“Yes, sir. Thank you.”

“Ya loves need to rest. As long as we got yer permission, Prowl, I’d like to come back tomorrow to visit wit ya ‘n yer bitties.”

“Please, you as well, Ricochet.”

***

Prowl was struck a little dumb by Punch’s praise, and his castigation. He did not feeling terribly deserving. Saving Jazz had not been selfless, he had not been able to bear the thought of him dying, so he had dishonoured him. The vicious barbs and accusations he had endured for an orn echoed in his helm. Those Bots had not understood what had happened but the glyphs still corroded at his spark, and Prowl was tired, too terribly tired to be strong. Jazz kissed the side of his face again, and Prowl leaned into him. He wished he could climb into his arms, and hide there for a little while. But even if he could, that would be too much to expect.

“Would you lifted Smokescreen and Bluestreak up?” Prowl asked.

“Ya got it, Prowler. They’ve been bravesparks waitin’ for Ratchet to fix ya up.”

Bluestreak curled up against Prowl’s hip as soon as he was lowered to the berth. He rested his helm on Prowl’s belly, and Prowl felt a swell of love and affection. Smokescreen sat up by Prowl side, and looked down at the triplets, curious and perhaps enraptured by them. Prowl felt like he could finally ventilate. Jazz was standing at his berthside, stroking his helm and starting adoringly at the bitlets. Despite the fact that this was the mech he had been running from, at least to a point, Prowl felt settled. Safe. Whole. A part of him wanted to tell Jazz to go home and recharge and fuel. The part that insisted on torturing himself. But Prowl kept his glossa, he needed Jazz. He had tried not to be a burden on this mech, he had tried so hard, but Prowl had always needed him. His newlings, their newlings rooted at his plating and Prowl understood what they wanted. But he did not know how to give them what they needed. Tears welled in his optic, he felt so weak and...

“Prowler, ya went into this a bit blind, didn’t ya?” Jazz crooned. Prowl nodded and the tears fell. A little servo wiped the tears away, and Prowl onlined his optic and smiled down at Smokescreen.

“Why are you sad, Prowl?” Smokescreen asked.

“I am a bit of a mess, Smokescreen,” Prowl replied.

“Ratchet’ll be in to help ya wit the code,” Jazz said.

“Nothing is instinctive with me,” Prowl said.

He had not known when to push, or how to ventilate. He did not know how to trigger the mechanism that would fuel his creations. He did not know if the mechanism would even function, or if he had a well at all. Though the priests had been meticulous when they had written his code. They had given him nothing at all to guide him through living. Even his fuel subroutines were lackluster. Whether Jazz had commed him, or whether he had come by his own inclination, Ratchet arrived and walked over to his berthside. The medic looked down at the foundlings who had joined him on the berth in his absence. Prowl had a denial saved on the tip of his glossa if Ratchet instructed them to get down.

“We’ll need to get that armour off. I don’t think it was built with hatches,” Ratchet declared. “Wheeljack had design you something a bit more functional while you’re recovering.”

“I do not know what to do,” Prowl said, with more of a whimper than he would have liked. “I know what I am supposed to do but I do not know how. I do not have the code.”

“I’ll take a look, if you don’t have it. I can uploaded it into your processor. Take a deep intake, Prowl. Despite you’re best efforts, you’re alright.”

The newlings were adamantly opposed to being removed from his chassis. They wailed shrilly as Ratchet removed them one at a time, and placed them in Jazz’s arms. Jazz cradled them carefully, lovingly. It did not seem to trouble him at all that they were wailing at full volume. Ratchet removed Prowl’s chestplate, and examined his protoform. As he prodded just below Prowl’s spark chamber, Prowl grimace. He felt a great deal of pressure, and some pain. The medic hummed his approval.

“This is your energon well,” he explained. “It’s full, which is excellent. I’m going to plug into you and see if you don’t just have the protocols buried.”

Ratchet did as he said he would, he plug a data cable into the side of Prowl’s neck and searched his code. Buried under the sea of protocols that governed his tactical systems, Ratchet found the very code he was after, and he brought it to the surface. Still, plugged in, he guided Prowl through the process of initiating fuelling protocols. Prowl had fuel lines connected to the energon well under his spark chamber. With Ratchet’s guidance, he released the lines. There were four, one more than he needed. Ratchet retrieved each squalling bitlet from Jazz and placed them back in Prowl’s arms before placing the nozzles of three of the lines into the newlings mouths. Before Prowl could wonder if these nozzles had any sensation, he felt the pinch as the mechlings latched. They drank. Prowl cried again, but the tears were happy.

“While I was repairing you I topped up your energon and coolant, and recharged your self-repair systems, but you’re frame’s reserves are nonexistent, Prowl,” Ratchet said. “Every extra scrap you brought in, your frame put into them, and then some, and they’ve come out strong and hardy, but you have nothing left. You need to take in four times as much fuel as a mech your size would routinely consume. So five or six times what you made a habit of living on. No rations, you need highly purified and energy packed fuels, and you should ideally graze throughout the mega-cycle. I don’t know how in Primus’ designation you carried triplets to term without any pari-emergence care or proper fuels, and we’re not going to see how far your frame can be tested again. Got it?”

“Yes,” Prowl replied. It would not be the last lecture. He could not claim he did not deserve it.

“Now. I see you have a couple of brave little mechs with you. I wonder if they would like some energon goodies?”

“Oh!” Smokescreen exclaimed. “Please!”

“Me to please!” Bluestreak perked up.

The treats Ratchet gave the mechlings were a trick. Prowl had been given them before, and as he watched, Ratchet put a plate of them on the small table that extended from the side of his medberth. They were sweet, as energon goodies should be, but they were packed with hidden nutrients. Certainly, they were healthier than rust sticks. Thanks to the iron-bear, neither Smokescreen nor Bluestreak were starving but they devoured the treats, and Ratchet offered them more. Takedown and the other caretakers would not have been starving the mechlings, but that did not mean they had not wanted or needed more. Prowl would see to it they had all they could ask for.

“For the first quartexes, the newling will benefit from plating to plating contact as much as possible,” Ratchet said. “Apart from when you need to rest, there’s no danger in holding them constantly. You cannot spoil a newling, whatever so old quacks say.”

When the mechlings finished fuelling they stretched out next to Prowl’s legs, and they were soon back in recharge, Jazz added another blanket to the ones already covering Prowl to keep the mechlings warm. As Ratchet had suggested, even after the newlings had taken their fill, Prowl held them. They would need to fuel every two joors, Ratchet had warned him. It would be a vorn before Prowl could be far from them, though Prowl imagined it would be longer before he wanted to be out of arms’ reach. His second emerged sleepily sucked on the nozzle of his fuel line, even after entering recharge. Prowl smiled at him. He could be greedy; Prowl would give him everything and more. Jazz dragged a chair over so he could be more comfortable as he stretched his arm over Prowl’s should, and stroked their dozing mechlings. Prowl could not think of a moment where he had been more content.

Their peace was disturbed as Smokescreen woke with a scream. His cry woke the newlings who in turn wailed. Bluestreak woke too, but he at least did not scream. It was obviously that Smokescreen had had a memory purge. Jazz extricated his arm from behind Prowl’s neck and gathered the mechling into his arms. He held the mechling to his chassis as he swayed from side to side and sang a lullaby. It did not surprise Prowl, not exactly, to see Jazz was so perfect and sweet with Smokescreen. Jazz had a kind spark, and shared his love without reservation. But he had never once mentioned creating or bonding, and Prowl had imagined it was not something he would want for himself. Smokescreen wrapped his arms around Jazz’s neck, and his cries morphed into whimpers. Bluestreak watched them sway and rock. Prowl would have stroked his helm, let him no he was not forgotten but his arms were full with three angry newlings. When Bluestreak looked up at him, Prowl saw his guileless smile.

As the newling cried, Bluestreak knelt up and kissed and nuzzled each of their little helms. When he saw them rooting, seeking to drink more for comfort than for fuel, he mirror what he had seen Ratchet do, and guided a line to each of their mouths. It was not long before they were all soothed, and recharging again. Bluestreak curled back into Prowl’s side, and drifted off himself. Jazz lowered himself to his chair, after a half joor’s constant song, Smokescreen still cradled in his arms. He had sung Smokescreen into recharge.

“Thank you,” Prowl said.

“I don’t imagine it’ll be the last,” Jazz replied. “These poor bitlets have been through the Pit too many times.”

“I wanted them the moment I saw Smokescreen flitting his doorwings, trying to speak but without having the glyphs.”

“Ya still want’em, don’t ya?”

“Yes. I promised them I would never leave them.”

“I’d like to claim’em myself,” Jazz said. “If ya ain’t opposed to sharin’em wit me.”

“You would?”

“I would. If ya would let me do this wit ya, my ori ‘n brother would claim ‘em too. They could have the big family they deserve. Lots of mechs lovin’ on ‘em Hound ‘n Raj would wanna claim too, they’re my brothers as much as Ric is. Just in a different way.”

“It would not be a burden to you?” Prowl asked. It was what he wanted, or it was as close as he had dared hope.

“It would be an honour, Prowl,” Jazz said. He adjusted his hold on Smokescreen, and looked into Prowl’s optics. “But I gotta be honest wit ya, before ya say yay or nay.”

“Please.” Prowl did not know if he could stand to hear Jazz had found an Amica or a Conjunx. At one point he might have felt some bittersweet happiness for his friend but not now. He was not capable of that kind of selflessness.

“When we were back there in the Sonic Canyons... I bonded our sparks. I understand if that’s one insult too many. ‘M so sorry, Prowl.”

“Insult?” Prowl asked.

“I treated ya bad. I hurt ya like some mindless mechanimal. Then I forced a bond on ya. ‘N I didn’t even have the grace to remember.”

“I merged with you willingly,” Prowl said. “And I have remembered those merges fondly. They only confirmed my conviction that you were worth saving. I would do it again in a sparkbeat. You were worth saving, whatever the price.”

“What about ya, Prowl? I don’t know how I wouldn’t lived wit myself if ya’d died in that shuttle.”

“Jazz?”

“I’ve loved ya for vorns, Prowl.”

“Jazz?”

“It didn’t seem fair to ya to put that on ya. It didn’t seem fair to the team. It was the only good thing I could see ‘bout havin’ ya transferred away. I thought maybe I could take ya out, after ya got settled, ‘n see how it went. But Altihex was as close as I got to Nova Cronum.”

“Jazz?”

“Prowl?”

“You love me?”

“Wit everythin’ in me. Back in the canyon... ya didn’t have to force me to come wit ya, did ya?”

“No. When we were all together you yowled at me when I ignored you for more than a klik.”

“Yowled? Seriously?”

“Hound and Trailbreaker would confirm.”

“Well ain’t I sophisticated. Yowlin’ like a fraggin’ Photovoltaic pussycat.”

“You also purred.”

“Scrap.”

“I liked it, Jazz. You were sweet to me.”

“I fragged ya raw. That wasn’t sweet o’ me.”

“You became frantic towards the end. You were dying, Jazz. I did not realize it at the time. If I had sparked earlier, I imagine it would not have happened. I would endure it again, a thousand times. The only thing I might have changed was perhaps trying to convince you to have me sooner so you did not have to suffer so badly.”

“What ‘bout ya, Prowl? I woulda come for ya. I wouldn’t o’ let Thunderclash just toss ya out.”

“Listenin’ to you talk about your heritage made me fear for you if you knew what had passed. Once I realized I was carrying I could not imagine demanding you pay for my error.”

“What error?”

“Forgetting to install the baffle. Thunderclash swept in and swept me off and I did not pause for... stellar-cycles. I have only my own stupidity to blame. I thought I would get away, take a leave, give emergence and return with the newling, claiming to have adopted him. I never imagined there could be more than one. Then, I also never imagined I would be at term and still on the frontlines.”

“I wish ya’d commed me. I wish ya’d commed Hound or ‘Raj. I woulda come. They woulda come.”

“You would have learned. I was afraid what you would do to yourself.”

“Oh Prowl. I wish I could say ya worry too much.”

“When Thunderclash denied my leave this last time, I knew it was over. Pharma was checking the CNA... He had to have known there were three. He did not tell me. He sneered at me like I was an errant broadcarrier. Like Vos saw all of us.”

“I’ll make’m suffer.”

“Ratchet may beat you to it,” Prowl replied.

“Why Velocitron?” Jazz asked. “Were ya hopin’ I wouldn’t come after ya?”

“The Autobots at Nova Cronum became very ugly to me. I thought... given how quickly gossips spreads from base to base, and city to city I would not be left in peace, anywhere on Cybertron. I thought Velocitron was far enough away. Maybe far enough away to be spared this war. I had no choice but to reveal you as the progenitor, given Pharma had the CNA. They thought I had taken advantage of you as you were under the influence of an aphrodisiac. I did not tell them you were an Amalgus. I did not want you shunned.”

“Sweetspark, ya let them railroad ya.”

“I was too tired to fight. Too tired. I knew you would learn of the trial, and of my claim when your cover assignment ended. I left my details with Thunderclash. So if you wanted to find me you could. The thing I feared the most was that you would not come at all.”

“I would go to the end of the universe for ya, Prowl.”

“I know. I was scared you would feel trapped. It was my fault. They said so many ugly things. It had to be your choice to come. I could not... I cannot bear for you to resent me.”

“Never!” Jazz said. “Never in a million vorns could I resent ya. We didn’t plan for this, Prowl. Not our triplets, ‘n your foundlings but Primus if this thing ain’t worked out to being the best thing that ever happened to me.”

“I love you Jazz.”


	7. Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Our favourite little family comes home.
> 
> And that closes Baffled. This really wasn't what I had in mind for the end. Because I didn't have an end in mind. But it's all I've got. Babysitting my niece took up too much of my write time.
> 
> Tomorrow we return to the dragonformers.

“Alright, Prowl. I think you’ve healed well enough to go home. Try not to find a reason to come back before the mechling’s sixth quartex exam.”

Prowl was not permitted to transform yet. He did not understand Ratchet’s concerns but even if Prowl thought the medic was being overcautious he was too happy to finally be freed from the medbay to push the matter. Jazz sat next to him in the comfortable cab of a civilian Convoy. They were finally bringing their triplets home. It had taken almost an orn to settle on designations for them. Nothing Prowl had considered in those lonely, harrowing dark-cycles in Nova Cronum had felt appropriate for any of them. Jazz was holding Sunstreaker and Sideswipe, their split-sparks, smiling so dazzling at them, and Prowl loved him a little more. There was no question Jazz adored them, all of them both the creations Prowl had carried and those he had found. Prowl gazed at Red Alert with a smile that was certainly less dazzling...

“Y’re wrong,” Jazz said.

“Jazz?” Prowl asked

“Y’re smile dazzles me every time I see it.”

“ You are biased.”

“More like blessed.”

Their Convoy  pulled up to the curb, and lowered his ramp so they could descend more easily. The home they had been delivered to was new to them both. Jazz’s bachelor pad could never have held them all comfortably. While Prowl had been under Ratchet’s tender mercy, Jazz had secured them a large habsuite. Those few joors separation had been trying,  though Prowl had tried to keep it to himself, Jazz had known. It had only taken a few mega-cycles’ proximity to solidify their bond,  and Prowl would have to learn to shield his spark if he wanted to keep much of anything from Jazz. Thus far his attempts had only distressed their creations. When he shielded his spark from Jazz, he shielded  it from his creations, and they did not tolerate it, and in all fairness Prowl did not tolerate either. For his part, Jazz had insisted that he had been counting the nanokliks until he could get back to their family, and Prowl had known this to be the truth, because he could see into Jazz’s spark just as clearly as his mate could see into his.  So Mirage and Hound, with some help from Punch and Ricochet, had packed up Jazz’s bachelor habsuite, and prepared their new home for their arrival. Prowl trusted them, because Jazz trusted them. 

It was good to be home. Prowl leaned into Jazz. But he could be home anywhere, so long as he had Jazz and their creations with him. Smokescreen and Bluestreak had gone with Punch and Ricochet to choose the furniture for their berthroom. Just as Jazz had said, his originator and brother had been thrilled to claim the foundlings. Not foundlings for much longer. Jazz had filed the paperwork to secure custody of them, and to begin adoption proceedings. He had shamelessly used his connection with the Prime to push things through , and Prowl had shamelessly encouraged him. 

“As soon as we get inside, y’re gonna get settled on the couch, like Ratchet ordered,” Jazz said. “No strainin’ a single component. I’ll take care o’ ya.”

“You seem to almost relish the idea,” Prowl replied.

“I do. I didn’t get to spoil ya like ya deserved while ya were carryin’ so ‘m gonna make up for lost time now.”

“ You do not need to.”

“I want to, Prowler. I want to spoil ya. Ya deserve to be spoil after all ya went  through.”

“I love you, Jazz.”

“I love ya, too.”

Jazz led Prowl to the lift, keeping a close optic on him the entire time. Prowl could not deny the effort of just walking this far was taxing. Ratchet had repaired  his damage, but it would take longer for his self-repair system to fully be restored. Added to that the strain of keeping his newlings fuelled, Prowl did not have much in the way of excess energy. Not that he felt unwell. Not in the least, Prowl felt better than he had in a long time, perhaps ever. He felt safe, and loved, and whole. As they approached the door to their habsuite, his spark gave a little thrill. His older mechlings were waiting just inside, and Prowl was ecstatic to see them.

“ Ri Ri!” Smokescreen cheered as Prowl stepped into the habsuite. “Gee Gee!”

Their mechlings held up a sign they had clearly made with the helm of the adults who had been watching over them. Smokescreen had given them the honorifics. Bluestreak, unfortunately, no longer remembered his procreators, but Smokescreen had some fleeting memories of his. They had saved his life during the slaughter of Praxus, their memories deserved to be preserved. Jazz had told Smokescreen that he could call them whatever he chose, whether that was a nickname or their proper designations, and the mechling had come up with these nicknames all on his own. Prowl was delighted by them.

“Let’s get Ri Ri settled ‘n then ya can love on’m ‘n the bitties.”

Love on him they did. Both Bluestreak and Smokescreen were fascinated by the newlings.  They delighted in holding them, and watching them as they recharged and fuelled. Prowl delighted in watching them. He delighted in watching Punch and Ricochet enjoying the bitlets and the older mechlings... and Jazz. It was sparkwarming watching Jazz bonding with his originator and brother; they had spent to long estranged. Jazz had expressed surprise that they had come for him, after they had heard about the trial. Ricochet had shaken his helm, and professed his love for his twin. Punch had assured him he would come for either of them, whenever they needed him, and he had promised to do the same for Prowl. Though they were Jazz’s spark kin, they respected the  special place Mirage and Hound held in Jazz’s life, as the family he had found. Prowl was tired, but delighted as he relaxed on the couch, with Bluestreak nestled in his lap. Hound was cooing at Red Alert as he rocked the newling. Mirage for his part had awkwardly refused to hold any of the mechlings; he was afraid that he might drop them. With a chuckle, Hound shook his helm.

“We should have stayed,” Hound declared, returning Red Alert to Prowl’s arms when the newling began to whine. “You needed us.”

“I needed keeping,” Prowl confessed. “I forgot about myself. I forget. It is in my code, according to Ratchet. I do not regret that you left. I do not regret anything. Had you not gone, had I not forgotten, I would not have the triplets. Or Smokescreen and Bluestreak. I cannot be sorry for any of it.”

“You won’t be short of keepers,” Hound said. “You won’t need to lift a digit for anything for vorns.”

It was good to be home. When Smokescreen and Bluestreak were tucked into their berths, when their family both found and by spark had gone, Prowl and Jazz put the triplets in their containment berth and went to berth together. Jazz kissed Prowl sweetly and he welcomed Jazz into his arms, and into his spark. This was not the feverish and desperate interface of the rut, but a shy  and gentle one. From the time they had spent together in the canyon, Prowl knew Jazz but Jazz did not know him, and he wanted to learn. There was no danger of kindling again, Ratchet had outfitted Prowl with an inhibitor before he had discharge him. Prowl was delighted to make love to his sparkmate.

T here could be no comparison between rutting and making love. Jazz was tender and cautious. He worshipped the new curves to Prowl’s protoform, and drank down his moans. When he slowly sheathed himself in Prowl’s valve, Prowl watched the rapture spread across his face and delighted in it. The spike filling him now was still thick, but the sentio-metallico was smooth. It glided into Prowl’s valve setting his sensors alight, but stirring up no pain. The copious lubricants Jazz had used to prepare Prowl helped. When their sparks came together, Prowl held Jazz to him, and let him experience everything that had passed between them, and let him know how much he was loved. Not in spite of the rut or his Amalgus heritage but for all that he was. Jazz could not get enough of merging, and Prowl was blessed to share them with him. As much as Prowl needed Jazz, he realized Jazz needed him too. Prowl found himself forgetting his fears of being a burden as he came to understand that Jazz needed his love, and unconditional acceptance. 

P rowl was surprised when the Prime came to their habsuite, an orn after they had moved in. He had not come to the medbay when Prowl had been recuperating, and Prowl thought it was enough that he had allowed Ratchet to care for him.  Considering he had been discharged in dishonour, this had been kindness enough. Jazz had bristled about it. Not about Ratchet, but about the Prime’s absence. Where he had gone, Jazz had not been privy to. The saboteur had been put on leave. Prowl did not think he resented the leave; Jazz was not prepared to leave his side. But Prowl thought he resented being in the dark, and he grumbled about the lack of an apology. Jazz might have expected an apology, but Prowl did not. Why would Prime apologize to him? When he did appear, Jazz welcomed him in. Caught by surprise, Prowl was fuelling the newlings, and he thought he should rise, or at least salute but his arms were full as he carefully cradled the three newlings.

“Please don’t disturb them,” Optimus Prime said. “You’re looking well, Prowl.”

“I am, Sir.”

“I’ll get energon,” Jazz said. It was not quite a hiss. Prowl was surprised to feel so much displeasure through their sparkbond.

“You don’t need to bother, Jazz,” the Prime said. “ I won’t be long.”

“Sure.” Jazz sat with Prowl, as close as he could, giving consideration to his doorwings. He put his servo on Prowl’s knee. As much for himself as for Prowl.

“I want to apologies, Prowl, for the way you’ve been treated by my Autobots.”

“Sir?”

“Nova Cronum has seen some of our worst casualties in the war. I assigned you there in the hopes that you could be the change we needed. I didn’t realize that it was not Nova Cronum that lay at the spark of the issue, but the commander of the garrison.”

“Thunderclash’s garrison would gladly follow him to the Pit,” Prowl said. It was not expressly a criticism, but at the same time it was.

“And many of them have. I don’t want blind devotion in my Autobots. Not for me. And not for their commanders. With the all but cult-like devotion they have for Thunderclash, without his cooperation, you were severely disadvantaged before you ever stepped a ped in Nova Cronum.”

“He is fixated on Skyquake.”

“I realize that. I’ve relieved Thunderclash of command over Nova Cronum and have put  Elita One in charge in his stead. He’s chosen to go off planet; I hope, to reflect.”

“ Why are you telling me this?” Prowl asked.

“Because discharging you was a dereliction in his duty. Considering your state at the time, the only appropriate action would have been to evacuate you to Iacon to see to it you received the urgent medical care you needed, in the safest setting we have.”

“Someone had to be held accountable,” Prowl said.

“Why?” Optimus asked. “Prowl, you made a sacrifice to save a friend. One many would’nt have risked. You loyalty, and your devotion are admirable. I don’t want to make a habit of criminalizing these traits.”

“I lied.”

“You saved a friend. The only mechanism I hold accountable for any wrong, is Shockwave. You and Jazz are blameless in my optics.”

“I was thinkin’ ya wouldn’t be sensible, Optimus,” Jazz said. “Took ya a while to turn up.”

“I needed to address the problem with Nova Cronum myself,” Prime replied. “And I thought Prowl and you deserved some peace.”

“ Do ya got any idea how much ya been stressin’ me out?” Jazz asked.

“My apologies. Prowl, I’m disappointed at how so many of my Autobots reacted to your situation. You deserved better from us.”

“Thank you, Sir.”

“When ever you’re ready, Prowl, if you are willing, I’d like to offer you a place on my personal staff. I’ d like to hope that we’ll have this war before that time, but I don’t know that I believe that will be the case.”

“I want a free and peaceful world for my creations,” Prowl said. “When they need me less, I will join you again.”


	8. Fire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two years later, we return to Dragonformers.
> 
> Jazz brings Prowl home to his nest, where he knows he and the hatchlings will be safe. Only then can he return to the port, and the hatchling that remains in the merchant's hold.

Jazz knew Prowl wanted the missing hatchling in his nest, but the nest was not secure. When it had first been dug out, civilization had been further away. Whether civilization had encroached on the dragon’s territory in its lifetime or sometime after it was gone, Jazz did not know. It seemed to him like it must have been dug out by one of the great beasts. The Iaconians as they were now known had once roamed all of Cybertron but they were few and far in between now. Jazz had met two during his travels, though he had not needed to venture far to meet Ratchet. That old dragon lived in his clan’s territory, by invitation of Punch, who had served as his communities chieftain for millenia. In return for the security that came with community, Ratchet provided medical care to the sea dragons of the community. Ironhide lived in the Manganese Mountains, all alone. The ancient had no use for civilization, or community, but he told some great stories.

The port city was too close for Jazz’s comfort. There was no telling how many hunters were amongst that number, and if any of them knew of the old nest. No, before Jazz could leave Prowl and rescue the hatchling, he would have to get him home. On the off chance Jazz did not return, his kin would make sure the brooding dragon was given all that he needed. Thankfully, the journey to the Dead End was not a far one. Their little fishing village was easily overlooked, down the coast from the port. Tourists sailed by, or drove by without ever turning in to the sleepy village. No one gave them a second glance. But that was the point. Punch had founded the village, as their kin had been chased from their old nesting sight by the founding of the port. What better way to hide their clan then by hiding it in plain sight?

They rested for a time. Prowl groomed the stolen hatchlings until the stink of of the slaver was gone. As he focused on the hatchlings, Jazz groomed him. The damaged scales around his neck had loosened, and Jazz meticulously plucked them free. Though his own scales were smoother, and softer, like those of a fish, Jazz’s beak was still well suited for grooming the crystal dragon. He purred as he worked, pleased with the sound of Prowl’s contented sighs. Jazz continued down Prowl’s back, grooming around the crystal dragon’s stunted wings. Not stunted, Jazz realized as he worked dulled scales from Prowl’s back, clipped. The scars were so old, Jazz realized Prowl had to be have been clipped as a hatchling. He looked to Bluestreak. Thank the old gods, his wings were intact.

“I was stolen from a nest,” Prowl explained. “They clipped my wings so I could not join my kin in the cliffs if I ever escaped. I did escape, once. I could not make my nest high up in the cliffs, so I made one at the base. One came down and courted me in my season, but he did not stay. I had to leave my nest to forage. The emperor’s huntsmech found Bluestreak when I was gone. They used him as bait to catch me.”

“Ya only had one egg?” Jazz asked.

“Only Bluestreak. I thought that was perhaps why he did not stay. One egg was not worth the effort of providing for me. These hatchlings have his scent. It seems he did not guard their originator well either.”

“I will. I’ll guard ya well.”

“It will be vorns before I am in season again.”

“I’ll guard ya now. ‘N I’ll guard ya well.”

“You already have. You brought me and my creation across the sea. You rescued these hatchlings.”

“‘M gonna get ya the last. I gotta make sure you ‘n these littles are safe first. My clanlands are close. I’ll settle ya in my nest ‘n my family can keep watch on ya while I get that last bitty. If somethin’ happens, ‘n I don’t make it back, they’ll look out for ya ‘til ya don’t need’em anymore.”

“They would do that?”

“They would. They will.”

Jazz knew Prowl did not want to delay, but he also wanted to ensure they hatchlings in his nest were safe from hunters and slaver. It did not take any convincing to get to get Prowl to join the hatchlings in the boat, when the sun had set and the twin moons had risen. There were different paths to home, but straight up the coast would be the easiest, and the quickest. As founder and chieftain, Punch had staked his claim on the plot of land at the top of the bluff overlooking the sea. The house he had built was sweet and unassuming, but he was rarely in it. As with all the houses in the Dead End, Punch’s house disguised the entrance to the cave systems that stretched all the way down to the sea. When Jazz and Ricochet had left his nest, they had also built homes on the bluff that hid entrances to the same cave system, where they had each dug out their own nests. Like Jazz, Ricochet’s nest was empty. Though Jazz’s nest would not be empty for much longer. Punch would be thrilled. He had been badgering both his creations to make him a grand-ori for vorns.

Punch’s home on the bluffs was the first thing Jazz saw as he swam up the coast towards the Dead End. Jazz gave a little wiggle as he pulled the small boat along; he would have Prowl and the hatchlings in his nest soon. Hidden amongst the rocks, Jazz found the entrance to his family’s cave system. He hoped that Prowl would not mind the cave. It might remind him of the vault the slagtard emperor had kept him in. But it would not for long, because Jazz would give him the stars. Luminous crystals lit the interconnecting caverns, Jazz would line the ceiling of his personal cave with these crystals, and make him his own sky.

When they reached the hidden dock, Jazz tied up the boat, and helped Prowl off, and back into his natural form. One by one Jazz placed the hatchlings onto Prowl’s back, except for the littlest of the hatchlings he and stolen, he carried that one in his jaws as he lead Prowl deeper, and higher up into the cave. There was no sign of his kin, but Jazz knew they were about. More likely than not, they were listening. At least Punch would be. Very little escaped his notice. But he remained out of sight, for which Jazz was grateful. He wanted to get Prowl settled into the nest before his originator appeared. Apart from the mate who had abandoned him, and apart from Jazz himself, Prowl had not been around any other dragons, the hatchlings certainly had not been.

“My nest,” Jazz said, lowering the hatchling he had carried in, into the bowl. He sat in the cavern he had carved out when he had been a fledgling. A pair of large luminous crystals cast a warm glow over it. He had left them because they reminded him of the moons. The bowl of his nest was lined with soft mosses; Jazz guided Prowl over to it. “Yer nest now if you want it.”

That was the way of the sea dragons. The would-be suitor carved out their nests, and worked on them constantly over the stellar-cycles or vorns until they found their perfect mate to present it to. Prowl was Jazz’s perfect mate. When he had strained against that leash, hopeless and helpless, he had shown a strength Jazz had never seen in another. When he had seen those hatchlings in that cage and wished for nothing more than to free them and keep them, Jazz had known this mech possessed a strength of love he could only hope to match. Jazz held his intakes as Prowl stepped tentatively over to the nest, and tested the moss. There was a little rumbling purr from the crystal dragon’s throat. It had taken Jazz stellar-cycles to settle on this moss; he had never found anything nearly so soft. The walls were high too, good for keeping hatchings safe and contained.

“You made a good nest,” Prowl said. “Good for hatchlings.”

“It’s been waitin’ for’em,” Jazz replied.

Prowl reached his neck around, and picked the closest hatchling off his back and put him in the nest. He nuzzled the hatchling Jazz had already place in the bowl, and the one he had taken off his back. They would need designations. Even if Jazz had known what the slaver had called them, he would not have called the hatchlings by those designations. He and Prowl would choose proper designations for them. It thrilled Jazz to watch Prowl lift each of the hatchlings into the bowl, and then gingerly climb in with them. Ricochet had teased him when he had been carving it out. Asking Jazz if he thought he was going to mate with an Iaconian, the nest was so big. Jazz had hissed at him. As with any nest builder, Jazz had worked at it until it had felt right. It did not look to big now; no, it looked perfect. There was room enough for the hatchlings to grow. When Prowl’s season came, there would be room enough for more.

Jazz purred at the thought, and at the sight. He leaned into the bowl, and nuzzled Prowl’s helm. Before he nosed each of the hatchlings. They would have his scent. There was a curious warble from behind him, and Jazz nuzzled Prowl another time before he pulled himself up from the nest and turned to face his orignator. Unlike Jazz, and Ricochet, Punch was optic catching. With a yellow body and blue legs, he should have stood out in the sea, or on land. But Jazz knew his originator could disappear into the background. His colouring matched the reefs just off the shore.

“I need ya to watch’em for me,” Jazz said. “I need to go back to the port. There’s one more for me to steal.”

“Ya brought home a mate,” Punch replied. “More than just a mate.”

“I brought ya grandbitties,” Jazz said. “Come, come meet Prowl. Come meet’em.”

Punch followed Jazz to the bowl of his nest and chirped a greeting before he lifted his helm over the side. Prowl lifted his helm to the greeting. He had one clipped wing draped over the hatchlings. Jazz climbed into the nest to join Prowl, in part because he wanted to be there, and in part to reassure Prowl. As he settled, as his originator watched, Jazz nuzzled his snout under Prowl’s chin. Jazz warbled with pleasure as he felt Prowl purr. Bit by bit, Prowl relaxed, and as he did, he folded his wing and let Punch see his nest full of hatchlings. Not quite full yet. They were still missing one. It would be full soon. At Punch’s pleased croon, Jazz warbled again. He knew it would not matter to Punch that the hatchlings did not have his code.

“Their beautiful,” Punch said. “However did ya find each other?”

“I found Prowl ‘n Blue in the emperor’s vault,” Jazz replied. His originator’s optics glowed near white.

“No!” Punch exclaimed. “Oh love. Ya poor dear.”

“I stole ‘nough treasure from that scraptard to keep the Dead End supplied for a vorn,” Jazz said. “But someone needs to blow that Tower off the face of the planet. He covered it in dragon scales. I can’t begin to guess how many his hunter killed.”

“I’ll send the Tower ‘n the emperor to the Pit,” Punch declared. “What’d ya leave in Petrex?”

“A hatchlin’. Some sick scrap was sellin’ bitties. I stole three, but he’s got one more. I gotta go back ‘n get the one he’s keepin’ as a pet.”

“I’ll make sure Prowl ‘n yer hatchlings got everythin’ they need. Yer brother’s gonna be sorry he’s missed this. But he’ll turn up sooner or later. Just like ya did.”

“Ric’s playin’ pirate?”

“He is.”

“‘M gonna stick ‘round for a few joors. I shouldn’t be gone for more ‘n the dark-cycle. But if somethin’ happens ‘n I don’t come back...”

“I’ll burn Petrex to the ground,” Punch replied. “‘N provide for yer mate ‘n bitties. They won’t want for nothin’. But I expect ya to come back.”

“I plan to. But just in case. I don’t want’m to have to leave the nest for nothin’.”

“I knew ya’d be a good mate when ya found the one for ya. Prowl? All ya gotta do is call my designation. I’ll hear ya.”

“Thank you,” Prowl said. “I will not trouble you unduly.”

“Hush, love. Ya couldn’t possibly be trouble. Yer my grandbitties’ ori.”

Punch slipped from Jazz’s cave, and left his creation with his new mate and hatchlings to rest. Jazz had known his originator would welcome the hatchlings with his whole spark, but experiencing it was still a pleasure all the same. Eventually, Prowl would feel settled enough to let Punch interact with the hatchlings, but of course he was much too broody for that right now. It was enough right now that Prowl was allowing Jazz in the nest, this was not always the case with originator dragons. When the hatchlings started cheeping with increased urgently, Jazz nudged them over to Prowl’s waiting nozzles. Bluestreak, bigger and more experienced with the act of nursing, latched with any need for encouragement. The others followed his lead, eventually and soon all were drinking. Prowl groomed them as they drank, and Jazz groomed him. He heard a rustle near his cavern’s entrance and saw his originator leave a fresh kill for them. If Punch had his way, once Jazz retrieved that last hatchling, Jazz would not need to leave the nest for anything either.

“We should designate them,” Jazz said.

“We should. You have thoughts? I hope?

They settled on Skids, Flash and Camshaft. Skids was the smaller, and all over blue. Flash the biggest, and a mix red and blue. Camshaft was some where in the middle, and largely silver but his faceplates were a sunny gold. Ricochet would be amused his new nephew shared this trait with him, even though they had no relation. Though they had one more hatchling to designate, neither suggested a designation for him. Jazz felt like it might jinx the rescue. He had broken into the vaults of some of the wealthiest mechanisms on the planet, and Jazz was certain he could steal a hatchling from some tacky merchant’s shop. But he was superstitious and Jazz did not count his winnings until he had made his escape. He would not designate the hatching until he was safely in the nest.

Jazz remained in the nest with Prowl and the hatchlings until the moons rose the next dark-cycle. The mid-cycle had been leisurely. Between naps he had played with the hatchlings, and groomed his new mate. Before he set off for Petrex, Jazz ate a Sharkticon Punch deliver, still only after Prowl had eaten what he wanted. As Jazz slipped out of the nest, Prowl stretched out his wing to cover the hatchlings as they chirped after him. After he chittered a promise to return, Jazz made his way out of the cave. Just as they had imprinted on Prowl, the hatchlings had imprinted on him, and he was inordinately pleased. When Prowl went into season again, Jazz would try to sire a clutch on him, but in the meantime he would rear these hatchlings with every bit of devotion as he would when the hatchlings in the nest carried his code.

Unhampered by the boat, Jazz arrived at the port when the dark-cycle was still early. As he waited for the city to fall into recharge, Jazz slink through the shadows and back alleys. If anyone had seen him to question, Jazz looked like just another Polihexian, but no one saw him, not even the patrolling guard. Jazz was an adept sneak. Before he settled in to watch the merchant’s shop, Jazz had memorized every street and back alley of the market, and he was confident he would be able to make his escape unseen. When the lights of the upper floors of the shop went dark, and stayed that way, Jazz slipped up to the door.

To his amusement, the lock was better than those in the emperor’s tower, but still not good enough to keep him out. His vision was good enough that the pitch black did not hamper him in the least, and he moved about as easily as if the sun was high. Jazz found an ornate cage only slightly less fine than that which had held Bluestreak, but much too small, sitting amonst the finery of what must have been the merchant’s office. The little hatching was curled up into a little ball. His scales were glossa from the polish that scumsucker had used on him. They seemed... thinner than they should have been, as if the merchant had polished the bitty too much. He might have. They would need to have a delicate touch with this one until he could shed these scales. No one would polish him again. The only grooming he would suffer through in the future was baths and preening from his new procreators.

“Thief!”

Jazz snarled as the merchant flipped on the light. The mech, a green Polihexian with an orange visor shrieked as Jazz lunged for him. He had no opportunity to call for help. As he fell back against the wall, Jazz drove a dagger into his throat, before stabbing him in the belly, destroying his fuel tank with a cruel twist of his blade. The merchant slid to the ground. Not dead yet, but soon to be. When Jazz turned back around, the hatchling was online, and looking at him with sorrowful optics Jazz crooned at him, forgetting the merchant, and he quickly freed the hatchling from his cramped cage. The hatchling went all but limp as Jazz pulled him from the cage. He must have been used to being passed about. It enraged Jazz, but for the moment it might have been a blessing. There were jars of scales and things Jazz did not want to consider displayed behind the merchant’s desk. Jazz snarled. This place would burn.

The hatchling did not react when Jazz manually triggered his t-cog. If he had ever taken this form, Jazz could not know but the hatchling just suffered in silence. Poor darling. He would need even more nurturing than his nestmates. Jazz found the merchants till, and empty it of the shanix without a shred of guilt. The credits the slagtard had earned from peddling dragon parts would be used to ensure Jazz’s village continued to prosper. Once he found the dead mech’s stash of engex, Jazz poured it over the floor, over the finery, over everything. He could not breathe fire like the Iaconians, but that was no matter. He poured engex over the merchant, who’s visor still flickered but who’s frame had begun to grey, and made his way to the door. As he stood outside the doorway, Jazz struck two crystals together until one began to smoke, and he tossed it into the shop. In nanokliks, it was aflame.

He slipped into the back alley and watched as the flames took hold. Jazz imaged he could hear screams, but given he had destroyed the monster’s vocalizer, Jazz knew that this was so. But as he turned around, Jazz was certain he heard screaming, and he looked up to the second floor of the shop. The silhouette of a sparkling filled the window. For a fraction of a nanoklik, Jazz considered leaving the mechling to the fire. But his conscience did not allow it. Even if the sparkling was the creation of a merchant of death, Jazz could not let him die for the sins of his procreator. Still, Jazz hesitated. Surely a neighbour would come out... but no. None of the neighbouring shops appeared to have living quarters above them. Before anyone noticed the fire, the sparkling would burn. Unable to live with himself if he did nothing, Jazz secured the hatchling to his back, and quickly scaled the building.

“Help...”

The cry was barely a whisper and the sparkling disappeared from the window. Though his servos burned as the walls of the shop began to burn, Jazz did not pause, and neither did he drop to the ground. When he reached the second floor, Jazz forced the window open a little farther, and reached in for the sparkling. The mechling was unconscious, but his plating was still blue. His intakes had not been too overcome with smoke just yet. Jazz descended the wall as quickly as he could as the walls burned even hotter. In the distance he heard someone shout _fire._ He had to move quickly, or his chance to escape with the hatchling would be gone. As someone stepped out of their habsuite at the end of the block, Jazz dropped the unconscious mechling on the ground, and bolted down the alley, and into the darkness.

In the distance, the sirens of the fire brigade rang out. Jazz had only just barely slipped out of the market when a thunderous explosion knocked him to his peds. He looked back and saw the sky filled with smoke and flame. Perhaps that merchant had been selling something other than just dragon parts. Jazz did not linger. As Petrex awoke and turned their collective optics to the market, Jazz made his way to the beach. The hatchling barely whimpered when Jazz triggered his t-cog again, and he did not fight when Jazz picked him up in his jaws. Before the first rays of dawn’s light could light up the horizon, Jazz slipped into the sea.


	9. Nest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The nest is full. As it had always been meant to be.

By the time Jazz made it home, his servos were throbbing horribly. He dragged himself onto the dock Punch had carved out when he had claimed the bluffs. With any luck Ratchet was in town, though that medic still roamed from time to time. If he was not, Punch would have a salve that would help with the pain. Thank the old gods he had taken Prowl home before he had gone for this hatchling. Jazz lowered the little one to the ground, and chirped three times. Half crippled, hunting enough fuel to provide for himself and Prowl would have been a risky proposition. Defending his chosen mate and their hatchlings would have been all but hopeless. Though he had not expressly anticipated getting burnt, this was precisely why he had taken them home first. There was security in community.

“Trouble, love?” Punch asked. “Oh he’s a sorry lil thing.”

“I think that scraplet polished his scales raw,” Jazz replied. “We’ll have to be real careful wit’m ‘til he molts. But I didn’t call ya for ‘m. I don’t suppose Ratchet’s in residence?”

“He is. What’d ya do to yerself?”

“Burnt my servos. I set that piece of slag’s shop on fire. I didn’t know there was a mechlin’ rechargin’ upstairs. I couldn’t let’m burn. It tempted me more than I like.”

“I’ll carry the bitty to yer nest for ya. Can ya transform?”

“I don’t wanna risk it.”

“My poor bitty,” Punch crooned and Jazz chittered as he rolled his optics. “Limp along carefully then.”

Jazz really had no choice but to limp along after his originator. He felt no distress having his originator carrying the hatchling in his mouth; Punch had a light touch, and this was his ori after all. Each step was painful. The pain bordered on agony, but Jazz did not scream or curse. He only hissed. Prowl’s helm peaked out from the wall of the nest as Jazz shuffled into cavern. His beautiful scales flared and he chirped a question. Punch gently passed the last of the hatchlings to Prowl to place in nest. Jazz watched Prowl’s helm disappear behind the wall of the nest with the hatchling only to return to gently but against Punch’s, who chittered and nuzzled Prowl’s helm, before both turned their attention to Jazz as he limped towards the nest.

“Rest, sweetlin’,” Punch ordered. “I’ll rose a ‘chargin’ dragon.”

“Thanks, Ori,” Jazz replied. Sore and weary, he slithered into the nest.

“Let me see,” Prowl said and Jazz showed him his servos.

He had no idea what they looked like in his robot mode, but in his form his scales were gone and his protoform was bumbled painfully. Prowl crooned at him and gently licked his burnt plating. Jazz hissed but then sighed as nanites in the crystal dragon’s oral lubricants partially numbed his servos. The relief was not quite total but it was much improved and Jazz sighed with relief. He laid in the nest, partially curled around Prowl, and the hatchlings. Flash wobbled up to him and cheeped quickly as a greeting. His brothers, including Bluestreak, lent their voices to his greeting. Chuckling, Jazz nosed at the hatchlings and licked their rounded bellies. They already looked so much better after just a few meals for Prowl’s systems. Their newest brother was curled up in a ball between Prowl’s front legs. Jazz paused from grooming the roly poly rascals to watch Prowl crooned at their newest hatchling and gently begin to groom him. The little one whimpered, more with fear than anything else. It was only fair that he would be scared. As he had been stolen from a nest, he had never been groomed by the dragon who had lain him and his nestmate. All of this was scary and new. But Prowl was tender with him, and he crooned the entire time he groomed the hatchling. Only when he was satisfied there was no trace of the merchant’s polish on the hatchling did Prowl nudge him to one of his exposed nozzles.

Convincing the hatchling was easier said than done. When Ratchet appeared with Punch, Prowl was still trying to get the little one to latch. The smell of his energon had attracted the four other hatchlings, and they all clamoured over to Prowl’s belly and they crawled over each other as they selected nozzles and latched. Prowl was patient, and he held the hatchlings to his frame as he scented the air. Jazz dragged himself up. Ratchet was a friend to him and his kin, but he was a stranger to Prowl, and they had five hatchlings in the nest for Prowl to worry over. As Jazz draped his upper body over the edge of the nest, he gave Ratchet and rueful grin, showing all his denta. The great dragon, twice his size in either form, snorted at him.

“The fire consuming the port was you then,” Ratchet said as he lumbered over.

“Not my fault it spread,” Jazz replied. “Pretty sure that slagsucker was sellin’ munitions, ‘n not just hatchlings and dragon parts.”

“How’d you burn yourself?” Ratchet asked. “It’s not like you to get careless.”

“There was a mechlin’ trapped on the second floor,” Jazz replied. “Couldn’t leave ‘m to the fire. Even if his procreator was a monster.”

“Because you aren’t a monster,” Ratchet declared as he took a large canister of salve from his hoard and applied it to Jazz’s servos. The salve was a vehicle for Ratchet’s healing abilities. Jazz felt his plating tickle as Ratchet mended the bubbled and burnt plating of his palms. “The scales will have to regenerate on their own. You need to watch where you step for a while, and stick to less toothy prey.”

“He don’t need to hunt wit a full nest,” Punch declared. “Ratchet’s an old friend, Prowl. A healer. He could look ya ‘n yer hatchlings o’er.

As Jazz sunk back into the nest, Prowl raised his helm to the catch a look at the great dragon. Jazz nuzzled him, and soothed his flared scales down. Ratchet did not peer into the nest, he had better manners than that. Prowl could not have hoped to do him serious damage, not without a lucky bite, but there was no reason to challenge Prowl. Since Jazz had never had a mate in his nest, he had never had the opportunity to see Ratchet work with a brooding originator or delicate hatchlings. The patience the old grump had with Prowl pleased Jazz greatly. If Prowl had not chosen to invite Ratchet to look, Jazz would have respected his choice as the broodcarrier of their nest. But Prowl did make a cautious chirr as he lowered his helm back down, and he folded his wind to his side, and allowed Ratchet to see the hatchlings. They were energon drunk, and recharging in all manners of undignified positions between their procreators. Save for their newest addition. Prowl nudge him back to his belly and once again urged him to nurse.

Ratchet gave a little rumble that Jazz felt in his struts. Strangely it did not alarm him. The healer dragon did not immediately look to the hatchlings. Instead he examined the ring of scars around Prowl’s neck, and then his clipped wings. Prowl allowed himself to be prodded, and when Ratchet covered his big, talon tipped servos in salve brought them to his neck, Prowl allowed the Iaconian to massage the salve into his scarred plating. Nothing could be done for his clipped wing but at least when new scales grew out to replace those who had been worn and deformed, they would lay properly on his neck. Prowl sighed. Jazz thrilled a thanks. Ratchet was not done though. He nosed at Prowl’s belly, examining his nozzles and energon supplies. As he sniffed about the lethargic hatchling froze. Whickering, Ratchet lifted his helm and reached into the nest. He kneaded Prowl’s belly as he stroked the narrow tip of a claw along the hatchling’s back. The little one opened his beak to squawk but Ratchet expressed energon into his mouth. Out of reflex the hatchling swallowed, and then whined for more. By the end of his meal, Ratchet had convinced the hatchling to drink directly from Prowl, though Ratchet still had to express Prowl’s energon from the nozzle. This time when Prowl sighed the relief went so much deeper.

“He may need more help,” Ratchet said. “But at least he has proper fuel in his tank.”

“Thank you,” Prowl said. “I was milked before. If I have to, I can do it again, if that is what he needs.”

“He should catch on. Why in Primus’ designation were you milked?”

“The emperor enjoyed drinking it. Some of it he turned into engex. Some he drank as he watched Bluestreak in the cage.”

“I thought those were rumours,” the healer sneered. “I’ll show Jazz what to do. The hatchling should catch on. They usually do.”

Jazz adored Prowl even more than he had when he offered up being milked if it meant provided for the miserable little hatchling. He could never have found a better mate, and these hatchlings could not have been adopted by or emerged to a better originator. Good fuel helped the hatchling perk up, as did the company of other hatchlings who swallowed him up in their cuddle pile. Prowl crooned over them. They were safe, settled and content. The emperor’s hunters would not roam this far, and the Dead End hid safely in plain sight. These bitties would not be hunted, their originator’s clipped wings would not have him trapped, alone and helpless. He would never be alone again. Jazz cooed at the four more settled hatchlings as they perked up and began to roughhouse. Their newest hatchling cuddled up in Prowl’s arm, not yet ready to join in. That was fine, he would have all the time he needed.

“Smokescreen,” Prowl said.

“Smokescreen?” Jazz asked.

“His designation.”

“It’s perfect.”

Smokescreen all but welded himself to Prowl. Though he could be convinced the recharge in the nice warm hatchling pile without much effort, he did not play. His start had been even more traumatic than that of his nestmates, which was a sad and rage-inducing thought. Jazz could only wish that the merchant had been alive enough to feel the flames. If that made him monstrous, he was perfectly happy to accept it. He felt no grief or guilt for the fire that had, in the end, burned a full third of the port. It had long traded in the sentio-metallico of his species, and Jazz hoped it took them vorns to rebuilt. His kin would be safer for its absence.

Jazz was not in a rush to leave the cavern where he had handcarved his nest. When his servos had healed enough he fussed about it a little. He dug up crystals to glue to the ceiling. The hatchlings cheeped with surprise when he slithered up the walls, and made them the dark-cycle sky. His originator brought fuel, and gifts for the hatchlings. Each now recharged with a plush iron-bear of their own. Bluestreak had been so sweet to share the one Jazz had given him, but it was good for him, and all of them to have a treasure of their own. Though his kind did not hoard, they still liked their things. Though he latched on to his iron-bear, and snuggled up with his brothers, Smokescreen still preferred to cuddle his ori over everything and everyone else. Jazz could not blame him. But the hatchling no longer needed help to drink his fuel, as Ratchet had said he would, Smokescreen had caught on.

He was thriving, though Jazz had known he would. Smokescreen had the makings of a true devil and Jazz smiled with pride and pleasure as their hatchling inched away from his brothers as they jostled about, and started to inch up the wall. Jazz did not wait for Prowl to rouse enough to retrieve him, he did it himself. His brother and originator were going to cackle when they learned one of the hatchlings was proving to be a little daredevil escape artist already. Smokescreen had been fated to be his, and though Jazz would not let Smokescreen climb far he did coo his praise at the little one’s cleverness and bravery. Perhaps praising misbehaviour was backwards caretaking, Jazz did not want Smokescreen to lose this streak when he was big enough to face the world. The world would never be the same. But before Smokescreen could take on the world, before his brothers could, the nest would be their safety, their shelter, and their home.


	10. Family

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pirate Ricochet comes home.
> 
> Just a short one, I'm afraid. Work ate my brain.

The imber breeze brought more than just cool weather to the dead end. It brought Ricochet home. Jazz was excited, even ecstatic to have his brother come home. They both had a habit of roaming so far, it was rare for the twins to find themselves at home at the same time. He knew without a doubt that Ricochet would sail into port with a big enough take that it would cover his dues to their community for a vorn, but he also knew that Ricochet would return to the sea with the saltus breeze. It was his way. There was no sense in dwelling on it, and considering Jazz had long spent entire stellar-cycles, even a vorn here or there, off on his adventures it would have been hypocritical for Jazz to complain. Of course, Jazz’s mega-cycles of roaming were over, his nest was full. As he watched Ricochet sail into their “fishing village” on a small skiff, Jazz all but vibrated with excitement.

Prowl was down below in their nest with the hatchlings. They were not old enough yet that he was prepared to roam far. He hardly so much as stepped out to stretch his peds. If it had seemed burdensome to his mate, Jazz might have tried to encourage him to explore a little, but Prowl was content for the time being. It could be a vorn before Prowl was prepared to roam far. At least a few seasons. In the meantime the hatchlings were growing strong and healthy. They would probably be ready to explore before Prowl was, but such was the way of these things. If Prowl was a little over protective, well he had the right to be.

As the skiff turned into the secret cave beneath the bluffs, Jazz raised down to meet him. How long had it been? Four vorns? Five? It felt like a lifetime at this point. But of course, Jazz’s life had taken quite the drastic change in just the last quartexes. His calor roaming had given him a mate, and a full nest. Jazz wanted desperately to show both off. Ricochet would tease him, and Jazz would allow it. Despite his excitement to show of his new brood, Jazz did not consider himself domesticated. Who knew how many vorns that merchant had been hocking dragon parts to Petrex’s residents and tourists. He must have had a source for his hideous wares. Hunters were nearer to the Dead End than any of them had ever realized. Jazz’s duties to his kin had not changed, but they had circled closer to home.

“Jazz! Ya sly bot, I didn’t know ya was home!” Ricochet exclaimed as he jumped off the skid, shifting in midair. Jazz allowed himself to be tackled. But of course he could have dodged. They rolled around the ground, jostled for position. Punch rumbled a laugh. His hatchlings had never quite grown up.

“Been home since early calor,” Jazz replied as he pinned his brother, grooming the new scales on his palms, making a show of the effortlessness of this hold. “I got somethin’ to show ya. Ya won’t believe it.”

“Oh?”

Ricochet sniffed at him, finally noticing the new, and overlapping scents. His long audials pricked up and Jazz grinned with pride. Punch chittered confirmation and cooed with pleasure. He was still basking in joy that Prowl had allowed him to crawl into the nest to enjoy the little ones. Jazz would not have even considered pushing the matter, the broodcarrier always chose when their hatchlings were introduced to kinsmecha, but he had been so proud, watching his originator with his creations, not only of Prowl but also of himself. He had made a good nest, he had found a dazzling and diligent mate and chipper little hatchlings to fill it.

“Prowl?” Jazz called as the returned to their cavern, his whole frame wiggling with excitement.

Prowl perked his helm up from the nest. He looked at the newcomer shyly. Ricochet was quivering with excitement himself, but he did not bound to the nest as Jazz did. He most definitely did not lick Prowl’s pretty red crest, and he did not climb in to join him. “My twin, Ricochet.”

“Hi,” Ricochet said, he stopped at the edge of the nest, but did not climb up to look. Punch had instilled good manners in them both. Jazz nuzzled Prowl and crooned low in his throat.

“Hello,” Prowl said. Jazz adored his accent, and the precise way he spoke. “You can look... You are Jazz’s brother.”

“Thank ya!” Ricochet chortled happily and ever so gently butted Prowl’s help with his.

He peered down at the same time as Prowl pulled back his wing to reveal the cheeping hatchlings. They looked up at the new face. Along with his strong new scales, Smokescreen had developed a mischievous streak. Not satisfied to just peer up at the newcomer, Smokescreen started to climb his originator. Prowl huffed, with no temper. He only let Smokescreen get so high as his shoulder before he lowered the little adventurer back down into the nest. Smokescreen whined, he wanted a better look, but Prowl was not swayed. The nest was, however big, holding his wings back, and hefting himself half upright, Prowl invite Ricochet and Punch in to the nest so uncle and grand-ori could better fawn over the darklings. Jazz took the opportunity to groom Prowl’s back, and neck, and to otherwise shower him with affection. This was what it meant to be family.


	11. Swim

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The crystal dragons go for a swim.

Ricochet did not sale off when the saltus breeze blew through the Dead End. The fire that had engulfed the port had proven to have unexpected complications for the Dead End and the sea dragons that lived in the fishing village. Ordinary mechanisms, livelihoods destroyed with the port had begun to drift down to the village with the cold of frigus. They had not been made welcome, but there was little the dragons could do to ward of their new unwanted neighbours, apart from being cold and abrupt. They had an unexpected advocate in the form of Ratchet, the fearsome Iaconian dragon. He had taken one look at their emaciated frames and set about ensuring they were all fed and sheltered. Though Punch had snarled that if Ratchet could follow these mechanisms _somewhere_ else but the medic had called his bluff, or more accurately, had summarily ignored it. With the danger of these strangers present, Ricochet remained in the Dead End.

As saltus passed into calor, the dragons’ unwanted neighbours remained. Their ramshackle huts were just on the outskirts of the Dead End. There were no free plots of land within the village proper, no empty huts or homes either, of course. The villagers, the dragons, called them Empties. Sneering at their empty optics, and sallow frames. Jazz felt some guilt, and some pity for their dilapidated states. He resented it. They could not possibly have been prosperous in Petrex. This level of poor frame-condition had not happened in a season. Still, he had some blame to bear for their misfortune and as such, Jazz did not join in the attempts of his clan to push them out. He ignored them instead.

Having the two-peds walking about did infringe on their lives; they had right to be annoyed by the invasion. To protect themselves from prying optics, the dragons planted hedges to guard their streams and swimming holes. Along the shore, they built clever disguises around their caves. Some filled in their cave openings altogether and dug channels underground. No sea dragon would allow themselves to be cut off from the sea. Jazz’s kin were singularly well suited. The mouth of their cave was hidden, and had always been, and the ocean went deep into the cave, more than big enough to dock Ricochet’s skiff.

This was where Jazz took Prowl and the hatchlings for their lesson. While crystal dragons did not traditionally swim, the Dead End was coastal, and they all needed to learn how to move about safely in the water. Punch had built a little pool, just up from the high waterline. Not so little a pool. It was big enough for Prowl, and the hatchlings. He called it a water nest, perhaps to sooth some of Prowl’s anxieties. They would never swim like sea dragons, but they did not need to. They only needed to learn to be safe in the water. Jazz would teach them well.

Bluestreak took the water immediately, splashing around the little pool as if he had been hatched to swim. Skids was a character. He would not swim so much as high step along the shallowest edges of the pool. Jazz thought he looked like he was marching. Flash wanted to chase Bluestreak, but was no nearly so confident as Bluestreak and he squawked, demanding rescue when he went just a little too deep. The moment Camshaft discovered how to float, that’s all he wanted to do and Jazz cackled when he discovered that their golden faced creation was having a nap as he floated a long. Smokescreen at first loathed the water. He climbed up on Prowl’s back and would not be moved. But the antics of his brothers were too much for him to resist, and he found his courage and slid down his originator’s back, into the water with a great splash. The other hatchlings were startled by his entry but as Smokescreen clamoured back up onto Prowl’s back, not to hide from the evil water, but to slide again, his brothers soon joined in his fun. Soon all the grown dragons were contorting themselves this way or that to be climbing structures and slides for the brazen hatchlings.

“I have found a new function,” Prowl said with a little chortle. “I am a slide.”

“Ya don’t mind, my love?” Jazz asked as Smokescreen, the imp dove off his curved neck

“No. Let them tire themselves out.”

They did tire themselves out and Punch watched them in a makeshift nest as Jazz led Prowl down to the dock, where his swimming lesson would be held. Prowl was nervous, Jazz could see it. The hatchlings were within audio range, but even this was the furthest he had ventured from them since they had all been brought together. Jazz crooned sweetly, and nudged Prowl along. His lesson would be two part. He would learn to swim as a dragon. And he would learn to swim as a mech. His wings did not lend themselves to speedy swimming, but they helped him float, and once he got his sense of equilibrium in the water, Prowl relaxed, he even enjoyed floating, kicking about. Teasing him, Jazz raised his tail and splashed his face. Prowl flicked his audios and lifted a single wing. With a great thwap, he splashed Jazz. The game was set, and well matched.

Jazz guided Prowl to the mouth of the gave to watch the sunset, as Punch continued to watch their creations. They swam a little in their robot modes but only a little. With the backdrop of the setting sun, Prowl pulled Jazz into a kiss. Apart from some shy touches, and tender cuddles and nuzzles they had not had the chance to embrace. With their family safe and settled, Jazz took his mate into his arms, and made sweet love to him.


	12. Hunt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A face from the past returns as the hatchlings fledge.

Overtime the dragons’ hapless neighbours largely managed to worm their way into the tapestry of the village. Rumours of courtships between sea dragon and two-ped abound, though nothing had come of the whispers yet. Interface was one thing, but mating, bonding was a different matter altogether. So far as Jazz knew, no dragon had taken a two-ped into their nest. There remained an invisible barrier between the two frametypes. Still, some of the newcomers had ingratiating themselves on the villagers. The baker was an especially popular amongst the sea dragons. Jazz had become a frequent customer of hers of late. After vorns of rearing Bluestreak, and the foundlings that had become his brothers and nestmates, with Prowl, his mate had come into season and now his belly was heavy with a new clutch. Jazz had been delighted to indulge his every craving. Their nest was empty now, Bluestreak and his brothers were fledglings. They had their own nests in the cavern. Not permanent ones, those they would need to carve out in their own caves, though it would not be so straight forward. Their claws were not meant for digging in stone, but they were adaptive. They would all find their own way.

  
With him on this shopping expedition was Smokescreen. The last of the hatchlings to join the nest, Smokescreen had been the shyest at first, and then the boldest. Having grown up listening to Jazz’s stories of his adventures collecting his dues for the village, Smokescreen was excited to go out on adventures of his own. There was no question that Prowl was not ready to see him go off into the unknown. Jazz knew, if not for Prowl’s current condition, Smokescreen would have run off with the his agemates amonst the sea dragons, but he was a good creation and he had not wanted to distress Prowl. Prowl had been from the beginning a diligent and cautious originator. His protective coding had only surged as he had grown heavy with eggs, and though his first creations had fledged, he was very anxious and watchful over his fledglings.

“What did Origin send you for this time?” Smokescreen asked.

“His favourite,” Jazz replied. “Energon donuts with rust shavings.”

“Mirror’s are the best,” Smokescreen replied. “Origin’s getting really restless.”

“Grand-ori thinks he’ll be layin’ any ‘cycle now. I can’t wait to meet’em.”

“You’ll be a great genitor to them,” Smokescreen said. “You were to us.”

“I’ll always be yer genitor. Prowl will always be your origin. Don’t think for a nanoklik he’ll be too distracted to fuss over ya.”

“Jazz! Jazz!” Gripper called his designation as he ran up to genitor and creation.

“Where’s the fire?” Jazz asked.

“No fire! Hunters!”

“No!” 

“They cornered some of the fledglings. They mostly got away, but Kick-Off’s hurt bad. They followed his trail up the stream by the fishing docks.”

“Tell my ori what’s happenin’, I’ll head these scraplets off. Get Ratchet to all aft! He might be Kick-Off’s only hope. Smokescreen takes these to your origin ‘n keep underground!”

“No way! I’m coming to help!”

“Smokescreen, you’d be a better prize than any sea dragon wit yer scales. I can’t risk anythin’ happenin’ to ya. I wouldn’t forgive myself. Yer origin wouldn’t forgive me.”

“I’m a grown mech, Genitor. I need to do my part.”

“Take care of your origin, that’s yer part!”

Jazz pushed the box of donuts into Smokescreen’s servos and ran east. Given their quarry were sea dragons, the hunters would not expect an attack from the land. He knew the woods around the village better than he knew his own frame, and Jazz turned off the road, and into the tree-line just across the way from the bakery he had just visited. Kick-Off was Smokescreen’s age. They had fledged together, though their first rites were different. Had Smokescreen had his way, he would have been off with this young mech. Primus forgive him but Jazz was grateful it had not been one of his creations who had come to harm. He remained in his mechaform until he reached the stream and spotted the hunters.  
They had indeed cornered Kick-Off. The stream was died pink with the energon the young dragon had lost. His optics were lit, but dim, and he did not move as the hunters approached him, holding a massive net. Jazz snarled and showed his denta, and as he did, he transformed. He recognized the hunter directing the others, and Jazz thought if he did nothing else, he would take his helm. Lockdown had been the single most effective murderer of dragon-kind that Jazz had ever heard of, and he promised himself that the slagsucker’s spree would end this mega-cycle. There were two other familiar faces amongst the hunters and Jazz’s scales flared with hate and anger. The streetwalker Ratchet had saved. So this was the venture he had left for.

“To yer left, Deadlock,” Lockdown ordered.

“Got it.” Jazz crouched low. Ratchet had called the buymech Drift. It must not have been a fearsome enough designation for a hunter.

“Devcon, y’re dragging the net, come on!” Lockdown snapped.

“Sorry, ‘genitor.” 

So that explained how the merchant had come into his goods. He had been in business with the hunter. The mechling Jazz had saved from the fire had grown into a talk, lean mech. He was a sack of slag, just like his progenitor. Devcon, as Lockdown had called him would die this mega-cycle as well. As Jazz looked across the stream he saw his brother, and then his originator. Absent was Ricochet’s mate, but that was a given. The clutch Ricochet had sired on Barricade were only ten vorns old. It would be some time still before they fledged and his duty now, in face of an attack, was to guard the nest with his life, not as if anyone needed to tell the black and purple crystal dragon that.  
As the hunter’s raised their net, already celebrating the success of the hunt, the dragons struck. Punch caught the merchant’s whelp and tossed him into the trees. The young mech screamed. It was not in Jazz to feel pity. Lockdown’s pack quickly scattered as dragons charged them. Some ran too quickly into the woods to be caught easily, but others died as they were caught by tooth or claw of an enraged dragon. Afterburner ripped an unlucky hunter clean in half as he stood over Kick-Off, his creation. Jazz searched the melee for Lockdown. 

“Drift?” 

Ratchet’s question was followed by a betrayed bellow as he stood in front of his patient, and tossed back his helm. When he lowered it, a great breath of fire exploded from his jaws. The hunters still fighting screamed, as the sea dragons hastily stepped out of the fireballs path. Jazz did not concern himself with the traitor’s death. He only cared about Lockdown. He spotted the hunter fleeing for the sea where his boat was docked. One of his lackey’s asked him about Devcon. Lockdown snarled only to leave him. When he spotted Jazz barrelling down on him, he tossed one of his hapless minions into the dragon’s path. There was no loyalty amongst hunters or thieves. As the surviving hunters made their escape, a heavy smog filled the forest. Terrified screams erupted from all sides as dragons found their prey. After Jazz finished off the hunter that had been thrown into his path, he looked up to see Lockdown sailing away. For a moment, he thought he should give chase, but as other dragons slipped into the sea, he remembered Prowl and the eggs sitting heavy in his belly, and he stayed.

“Smokescreen...”

“You can be mad. I don’t care. Kick-Off is my friend. I needed to do my part.”

“‘M proud of you.”

Smokescreen’s ability to breathe smog had been an unexpected development which had appeared when he had still been a youngling. Crystal dragons were not fire breathers, or breathers of anything but the air, yet Smokescreen had come into this ability. Ratchet had taught him how to use it safely, and Smokescreen had practised well. He might have been singularly suited to sabotaging hunts. Though Jazz did not think he was any more ready that Prowl to see him go off on such a perilous quest.   
“We’ll see if there’re any stragglers. With any luck Gripper ‘n the others’ll sink that slagger’s ship.”

***

Smokescreen was thrilled by his genitor praise. He understood he was young, and it was the nature of things that his procreators were worried but he could not hide in a nest forever; Smokescreen was a grown mech. Though he had claimed a small cave in the great cavern claimed by his grand-ori, Smokescreen was not a sea dragon. It was not in his code to fuss over a nest. Some would have suggested then that his code was to fill a nest for one who had carved it, but this did not feel right to Smokescreen either. Sometimes he wondered if he needed to carve a cave in the side of the bluff, but he realized this would be foolish. Any passing ship would be able to see such a nest. His origin, amazing as he was, could not help him find his path, his wings had been clipped, and he had never been able to truly live amongst his own kind in the cliffs of Praxus. 

Though Smokescreen wanted to see the place where his egg had been lain he knew he could never live like a crystal dragon. The sea was a part of him, and the Dead End was home. Still, some mega-cycle he would like to see the cliffs. He did not feel the threat of the emperor, as his origin had, Uncle Ricochet and Uncle Barricade had met in that vault. Ricochet had broken into the palace and the vault with the intent to slay the emperor and to free any dragon he might be holding captive. Though he had found a captive dragon, Barricade had already killed the mech who had intended to use him as a broodcarrier, while chained no less. 

The only rescuing Ricochet had needed to do was to cut the chains binding Barricade. After looting the vault of everything he could carry, Ricochet had offered to take Barricade home to the cliffs, after he returned the loot, and a piece of the emperor’s frame to the Dead End. Barricade had taken him up on the offer, and had just happened to come into season while at sea with Ricochet. By the time the had reached the Dead End, there had already been a clutch of eggs in his belly. Smokescreen’s cousins were clever little terrors that shared a mix of their progenitor’s and their originator’s heritage, and Smokescreen wondered what his new brothers would look like. Lost in thought, Smokescreen almost tripped over the hunter, leaning against a fallen tree. He was blue, the same colour as the sky. As Smokescreen’s fuel tank did a flip, he snarled.

“Just get it over with,” the hunter hissed. 

Smokescreen lowered his helm, denta bared. He went nose to nose with the hunter. That smell... It was so familiar. As he sniffed at the hunter, Smokescreen felt another twist in his fuel tank, and felt terribly conflicted. The hunter did not move. He held his arm to his chassis, it was clearly broken. There was no more fight left in him. That other hunter... he had called that mech genitor, but that mech had left him, left him to die. Devcon... Devvy... he had given up. Though he made a panicked cry as Smokescreen closed his mouth around him, the hunter was not well situated to flail. Cocking his helm carefully, Smokescreen lifted the hunter in his jaws, and turned back for home.


	13. Clutch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nests throughout the village are filled with hatchlings or brooding originators. And hunters...

“What in Primus’ designation? Smokescreen! Ya don’t bring hunters to the nest. I don’t care if they’re all the way dead, let alone half dead,” Jazz snapped. Smokescreen could not explain himself, his mouth was full, but he whined, low in his throat. He saw his originator lift his beautiful helm, and dipped his helm under the weight of his stare.

“Well, bring him here,” Prowl said.

“Prowl?!” Jazz exclaimed. “He’s a hunter!”

“He is not hunting right now, is he?” Prowl replied. “Come along Smokescreen. Let me see what you have found.”

Smokescreen lowered the hunter, Devvy, into the nest. He was certain of this was Devvy. Hatchlings broke from their eggs with a greater maturity than two-ped newlings emerged from their originators’ forges. As such, he had some fleeting memories of his life before his procreators had taken him into their nest. Gentle strokes on his helm, and sweet fuel, those were his memories of Devvy. His only other memories of his time in the port was pain and loneliness and sickness. Life had only truly begun until he was in the nest with his brothers, and in the care of his originator and progenitor. They were his world. It agonized him to know his progenitor was angry with him, but Smokescreen could not bring himself to kill the only source of light from his earliest memories. Even if the mechling had become a hunter.

“You can talk,” Devvy squeaked as Prowl lowered his helm to get a good look at him.

“Of course we can,” Prowl replied. “What did you think we were? Mere beasts?”

“Yes?” Devvy replied. He shrank away as Prowl leaned in close, and he groaned with pain as he back into the wall.

“Hmmf,” Jazz grumbled. “That what Lockdown told ya?”

“How do you know my ‘genitor?” Devvy asked.

“He’s been murderin’ our kind for vorns. Ya might say he’s infamous in our circles.”

“He did not choose his procreators,” Prowl said, and Smokescreen adored his originator even more. He gave a little trill and nuzzled Prowl’s shoulder. “You will have to doctor him, Jazz. I would do more harm than good at the moment. Ratchet is unlikely to have energy to spare after he has tended to our wounded.”

“Seriously?” Jazz hissed.

“Would you prefer I try to shift?” Prowl asked as he stared down his mate.

Everyone, except perhaps the two-peds, knew it was an empty threat. Prowl’s frame would no longer shift. In the late stages of carrying, the t-cog always became disabled. Gravid dragons had to make the choice early as to whether they would proceed with their carryings as bipeds or as dragons. The majority chose to pass their gestational-cycles as dragons. It best suited their code. Ratchet lived amongst the interlopers in ways the sea dragons, and by rote Smokescreen and his brothers, did not. His absence would be noticed. But there was something terribly vulnerable and terribly uncomfortable about carrying in the bipedal form, according to Prowl. Ratchet had no mate tending him. Though it was the normal for Iaconian dragons who only tended to pair up when they were in season, and separated before the eggs were lain, the circumstances of his carrying were different. He had lain with one of the interlopers, not another dragon. No one was certain how his carrying would go. But he was not the first dragon in the history of their kind to bear the whelps of a two-ped.

Jazz made a frustrated growl but he shifted. There was an elegance to his shift that Smokescreen had long attempted to mirror but had never come close to matching. Devvy looked abjectly terrified as the sea dragon transformed in to a Polihexian. A very angry one. He tried to back away, but he was already backed up to the high wall of the cave; there was no way for him to escape. Prowl crooned low in his throat. A sound Smokescreen still found incredibly soothing. If Jazz wanted to hurt Devvy, he did not need to have the claws or teeth of his dragon form to do it. Smokescreen knew his progentior was just as lethal in his bipedal form as he was as a dragon.

“The only reason he ain’t bitin’ ya in two’s ‘cause he’s broody,” Jazz hissed.

Smokescreen chortled, as his originator snorted derisively. In all fairness, this was probably true. His origin’s egg belly was low and round. Though he knew Prowl had only carried one egg before, one that had held Bluestreak, it did not seem as if there could possibly only be one egg this time. Smokescreen wondered how many new brothers he would have. Prowl had not left the nest in orns. In the last few mega-cycles he had been fussing with the moss more and more. They would have their answer soon.

“I don’t need you doctoring anything!” Devvy exclaimed. Jazz cackled, and shook his helm.

“I’d be happy to let ya rust, Brat, but then he’d be mad at me, ‘n him ‘m afraid of.”

“Devvy.”

“What?” Jazz asked.

“Only Swindle called me Devvy.”

“Ya actually remember ‘m, Smokey?”

“A little.”

“Wait!” Devvy exclaimed. “You’re that hatchling Swindle kept in his office? I thought some competitor stole you... or you burnt in the fire.”

“Jazz rescued me.”

“Jazz rescued him as well,” Prowl said, lounging languidly on his side. The great swell of his belly made all the more obvious. “From the fire.”

“That was you?” Devcon asked in a shy whisper. “I knew it wasn’t my ‘genitor. He didn’t turn up for quartexes after.”

“Who minded ya, Mechlin’?” Jazz asked in lieu of answering.

“No one. I just hung around until my ‘genitor showed.”

“In the market?” Jazz asked. Devvy shrugged and winced. Jazz began prodding his injured arm. “There wasn’t much more than scrap left.”

“Enough scrap to hide under when it rained.”

“Fraggin’ Pit.”

“You should have taken him with you,” Prowl sighed.

“That woulda been a step too far,” Jazz replied, but his mouth was set in a thin line. Maybe he was questioning the choice he had made. “Shoulder’s dislocated. Might have some cracked struts... Probably do, along wit those dents. Coulda been worse, Ori just tossed ya, he coulda ripped ya to pieces... I’ll pop it back in.”

“I’d rather you didn’t,” Devvy said, stiffly. Giving Jazz an openly dubious look.

“Y’d rather risk lose use of your arm?”

“I’d rather not risk you just ripping it off...”

“Seriously?” Jazz said.

“Can you blame him, Jazz?” Prowl asked. “You have only been terrorizing him. What is your designation, mechling?”

“Devcon.”

“My creation called you Devvy.”

“That’s what Swindle called me.”

“What would you like to be called?”

“Why does it matter?”

“It is good manners to call a mechanism by the designation they wish to be known by,” Prowl replied.

“Devcon or Dev would be fine.”

“Devcon, Jazz will not hurt you unduly. He knows it would irritate me.”

“That’s enough to stop him?”

“Yes,” Prowl, Jazz and Smokescreen replied in unison.

“Okay...”

“Smokey, why don’t ya gimme a servo here?”

“Sure, Genitor.”

Smokescreen transformed, feeling a little gawky as the only light of his earliest memories watched him. Gentle pets after Swindle had made his plating raw with all that polishing. Sweet fuels to eat instead of the nasty slop. Devvy, or Devcon now had been kind. Now he was alone and scared, and Smokescreen needed to return the kindness. If he could convince him they his kind were only a different type of mechanisms, maybe he would forget the hunting. What he would do instead, Smokescreen could not hope to give him recommendations. The sea dragons had unique means of earning their keep. Fishing was the most pedestrian of their methods, mostly that was just a matter of subsistence. No, dragons from every family paid their dues through sabotage and theft, as his genitor had, piracy as his uncle had, or trade. But Devcon would need to find some other path because if Jazz had even the faintest of suspicions that Devcon would return to the hunt, he would be a dead mech.

Smokescreen followed his genitor’s lead and helped Devcon lay down as Jazz ensured his arm was lined up right. It snapped back in with a little click but from the way Devcon gasped, Smokescreen guessed it had hurt. He was not proud that Devcon had not screamed, but annoyed. Annoyed with Lockdown who had clearly not been a fraction of the genitor he had deserved. Condensation made Devcon’s cheekplates shiny as Jazz carefully immobilized Devcon’s arm against his chassis. By the time Jazz was done, Devcon was shivering. Shock was wearing off, leaving only pain behind. Resting aching his origin, Smokescreen pulled Devcon over with him, and held a cube of med-grade to his mouth. The hunter drank it gladly. Though it was only a mild blocker, the pain block at last eased some of his pain. Prowl crooned, and lowered his helm to the floor of the nest. Jazz transformed and stretched out to drape his helm over Prowl’s neck. He watched Devcon until he slipped offline, and then he dimmed his own optics and recharged. There were still butterflies in Smokescreen’s fuel tank, but as he held the first mechanism to show him any kindness, surrounded by the first two to show him love, Smokescreen drifted off into recharge.

***

Plating bubbled badly from the dragon fire, Deadlock dragged himself from the woods under the cover of darkness. So many dragons. He could not wrap his helm around the idea that so many dragons could live together so close to the village, and he thought of Ratchet. Where could they have hidden themselves without coming into contact with the villagers? In the vorn he had spent mooning over Ratchet in the outskirts of the village, Deadlock had never heard of any trouble with any such beasts. The fishermecha had never complained about damaged boats or stolen catches. No wayward youngling had disappeared. He thought of the hedges, and the private beaches the villagers zealously guarded. Could they have known. Could the dragons have been the secret to the bounty they enjoyed?

Ratchet. The dragon’s roar reverberated in his helm; its harmonic was so familiar. Ratchet. No one moved in the streets, and no one saw Deadlock. Not a single hut or hovel had a light on. Had that not always been the way. Like some orderly little cult, the village always became silent and still in the dark-cycle. You never even saw a silhouette in a window after the dark-cycle fell. It was getting harder to drag himself along. His plating, what remained of it, was bubbled and ruined. The dragon’s fire had seared his insulation and wiring. Nothing much worked now. It was work that that tainted Syk. He was going to die, if not from the burns than from the rust infection that was surely already settling in.

He needed to see Ratchet one last time. Deadlock needed to see him, to know he was safe. How had he never noticed so many dragons living so close? As always, the clinic’s door was unlocked and he shoved it open. Like all of the huts and hovels, the clinic was dark. The path fixed in his memory, Deadlock dragged himself to the closet of a berthroom Ratchet had kept close to his office. When they have lain together on the narrow berth, too narrow for it to possibly have been comfortable for Ratchet Deadlock, then Drift had asked him why he did not just convert one of the treatment rooms into a berthroom for himself, or build an extension onto the clinic. Ratchet had only replied that he had all the space he needed. Ventilating heavily, Deadlock dragged the door open, and pulled himself up. He expected to see Ratchet glowering at him, scolding him for the mess he had made of himself but... but the berth was empty. Where was Ratchet?

Deadlock searched the clinic. It was possible that he was paying a house call but every habsuite in the village had been dark. Where was Ratchet? Terror made him numb, and allowed him to push passed the pain, and to push on. A painblocker would help. It would give him enough time to find Ratchet. It had to. From memory, Deadlock dragged himself over to the supply closet and opened the doors. Instead of orderly shelves filled with tools and potions of every possible design, Deadlock only saw a tunnel. He did not understand it, it made no sense, but he crawled on. Deeper and deeper he crawled. In the distance, Deadlock saw a dim glow and it goaded him on.

What had he been expecting to see? Not a cavern lined with pretty, glowing crystals. Not that _dragon_ curled up in a depression in the floor. Even from this far away Deadlock could teek his misery and he _knew_. White body and wings with red legs and a red and white helm... Deadlock _knew_ and he could not quite process it. The beast stirred, and lifted his helm. Deadlock felt the dragon’s intent in his spark, and he did not wilt as he saw smoke waft from the dragon’s snout. Those optics. They were not the same but he knew them. There was so much pain in them, so much hurt, and Deadlock felt horrific guilt. His strength gone, Deadlock collapsed on the cave floor. When he did, the dragon rose. Slowly, wearily, he lumbered over. He leered down at Deadlock.

“I won’t help Deadlock,” the dragon spoke with Ratchet’s voice, only deeper. It oozed bitterness and betrayal, and Deadlock felt the blackest guilt.

“Will you help Drift?”


	14. Claim

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some reunions we want, some we don't. 
> 
> This more or less wraps up Dragonformers. I could do little ficlets down the road but tomorrow/later today beings the next week's AU.

It was a terrible choice. No matter what Ratchet did he felt like he was committing a terrible betrayal. If he helped Deadlock/Drift he betrayed Kick-Off, the village, his race. But if he let Deadlock/Drift die from the injuries he himself had cause, he betrayed his own spark, and the clutch that had his belly swelling. Ratchet did not move. All he could do was stare at Deadlock/Drift. He had saved Kick-Off but the wounds had been hideous, and it would be a long time before the young mech was truly recovered, and the scars would be with him for the rest of his life. The effort had left him drained. This carrying business had zapped enough of his energy, leaving him with little endurance.

His latent gift at healing had been drained by the effort it had taken just to pull Kick-Off back from the brink. Even if he trust himself to touch Deadlock/Drift in this form, Ratchet did not think he had enough magic left to save the hunter. It spoke to the resiliency of the long time buymech that he had survived Iaconian fire. But Ratchet had keen optics, and he knew that what time remained inDeadlock/Drift’s life would only be counted in kliks if he did not do something. This was not a matter of triage, those terrible choices he been trained to make. No, this was just a choice. Did he let the progenitor of his clutch die from the burns he had dealt him? Or did he save him? Did he try?

Ratchet felt weary to his very core. The choice he made now would stay with him. If he shifted now, it was unlikely he would be able to shift back. He had already been pushing his luck. But the sea dragons were not his only patients. The bipedal transformers who had limped down the coast after Jazz had all but burnt Petrex to the ground, and built homes at the outskirts of the Dead End seemed to endlessly need medical care. Their vorns of deprivation had made their self-repair systems weak. If he stayed in his dragon mode, he would be unable to care for them until he had lain his clutch, some twenty stellar-cycles from now. But if he took his robot mode, he would be trapped in a frame that felt too small. He would have to give emergence in this frame. His magic would be heavily restricted. If there was another attack. If hunters caught another of his neighbours and did what they had done to Kick-Off, Ratchet would hard pressed to save them.

Deadlock/Drift did not beg, he hung his helm and Ratchet felt his resignation and his regret. Maybe that was why Ratchet changed. It felt worse than normal, as if he was trying to fit armour meant for a minibot. Worse still, the discomfort remained even after his finished the transformation. Though Ratchet was tempted to test his ability to return to his dragon mode, he did not. There were more important matters as servo. Before he could reach for Deadlock/Drift, Deadlock/Drift reached for him, seizing his servo and sighing with relief. His optics dimmed.

“It really is you.”

“Came here figuring I’d safe your aft again?” Ratchet asked. He did not pull his servo away but his lover’s touch made him feel raw and worn.

“Needed to see you again,” Drift’s... Deadlock/Drift’s optics went black but he held on to Ratchet’s servo with unfathomable strength. “I just needed to see you again.”

“I don’t forgive you,” Ratchet declared as he pulled his servo free. Drift curled his servo into a fist, and Ratchet felt his dejection and his regret. “After I’m finished with you I want you to go. Don’t ever come back.”

“If that’s what you want.”

There was still magic in him, there always was. It guided Ratchet’s servos through the joors long surgery, and there was just enough raw power for Ratchet to charge Drift’s non existent self-repair system. He could hardly call the job done, in fact it was no where near finished. Ratchet had replaced the critical wire, and some vital components but there was so much more to do, and joors after he had begun the surgery, Ratchet wondered if the damage was not insurmountable. His work was lonely. Drift was in stasis, where he would remain for the time being. The dragon’s fire had been effective. Though Ratchet was so weary, he did not regret what he had done. Those hunters had been coming in to finish Kick-Off off. He did not regret burning them alive. Neither did he regret burning Drift... Damn his soft spark, _Deadlock_.

“Ya need to rest,” Punch declared as he slipped into the treatment room Ratchet had meant to lock behind him.

It had been an orn since Deadlock/Drift had crawled into his cave. It had been an orn of surgeries broken up by short naps and irregular breaks for fuel. His whole frame ached, but that was the norm already. He was really too hold for this carrying slag. Ratchet’s processor drifted to the mountains north and east of Petrex. If he was old than the dragon of the Manganese Mountains was ancient. When was the last time he had visited Ironhide? Ages. When their kind had been pushed from their ancestry ranges by the dawning of civilization, Ratchet had elected to join that civilization and to learn to walk amongst them. Ironhide had chosen to go deep into the mountains where no bipedal mechanism could ever venture. Was the mech even still alive? So much time had passed since he had last seen Ironhide, but when Ratchet thought of the old warrior he could not imagine him anything less than unchanged, and still roaming that mountain chain, alone. Ratchet did not want to be alone.

“Didn’t I lock that door?” He asked.

“Ya think a lock would stop me, Ratchet?” Punch asked. “Ya wound me.”

“Did one of you kin get himself in a scrape?” Ratchet asked. He stood between Punch and Drift. Though Punch was half is size, Ratchet knew he was anything but helpless. There was a reason the sea dragons still followed him. He was a strong leader... if a little paranoid. And a little uncompromising.

“Prowl’s laid his clutch. Only two eggs, considerin’ how big he got, we’re a little surprised. But one’s a twin egg. So I supposed that explains it.”

“Twins. That’s a rare thing. Leave it to Prowl and Jazz to defy convention.”

“He’s a natural at this business. Jazz was a wreck, still is. Can’t convince him to let Prowl outta his sight. But that might have somethin’ to do wit their guest.”

“A guest?”

“One of the hunters was once a mechlin’ Jazz saved from the fire. A mechlin’ who was sweet to Smokey. Smokey found’m alive after we ruined the hunt. ‘N he took’em home to Prowl.”

“And Prowl claimed him as if he was another orphaned hatchling.”

“That’s my creation-in-law. Jazz couldn’t’ve made a better choice.”

“I could have.”

“I leave that for ya to decide. Ya need to rest, Ratchet.”

“I need to finish, so he can go.”

“Is that what ya want.”

“Yes.”

“Really?”

“Damn you, Punch. What’s this about. I know he can’t stay. I don’t _want_ him to stay.”

“Yet y’re burnin’ yerself out to heal him.”

“I need to, alright? I need to. And then I _need_ him to go.”

“Because the longer he stays the harder it’s gonna be to let’m go?”

“What are you after, Punch?”

“You’d be hard to replace, Ratchet. If y’re gonna follow after’m, I need to know so I can start lookin’ for another medic.”

“I won’t. I’m an Iaconian. We don’t keep sires around, and we certainly don’t follow them around.”

“Cybertron’s changed since the Iaconians roamed the wilds. It’s smaller. No one’s really alone anymore.”

“I’m not leaving.”

“I’ll take yer glyph for it. Rest, Ratchet. Yer gonna have a hard ‘nough time as it is carryin’ in this form. We might look like’em but we ain’t like’em. Yer carryin’ low.”

“I’m fine.”

“Recharge, if ya want to stay that way.”

“What’s your game, Punch? I figured if you caught wind of this you’d read my the riot act.”

“Like I said, you’d be hard to replace. We survive because we blend in together. We gotta have a medic. We’d o’ lost Kick-Off wit out ya. So if y’re gonna follow yer spark, I need to know so I can start huntin’ for another dragon healer.”

“I’ve never met another one.”

“Neither have I. Why do ya think I put up wit yer sass? Go recharge, Ratchet. As long as he’s in yer care, he lives.”

***

Drift could not claim he was unhappy to finally be repaired. Ratchet would not look him in the optic. He did not linger outside of making his repairs. The failed hunter had no business feeling so forlorn, but he could not help how his spark felt. Guilt kept his vocalizer quiet. As much as Drift wanted to explain himself, and beg for forgiveness, Ratchet did not owe him it. It seemed unfair to ask for it. He should have been satisfied Ratchet had even saved him, he did not deserve to have been saved. Those dragons they had trapped... they had not been rare beasts. No. They had been, they were, mechanisms and he had helped Lockdown catch them. He had helped Lockdown sell them to the highest bitter. Drift reverted to his old paint now that his repairs were complete. There was no way he could ever be Deadlock again.

Still, he had been that mech, and Deadlock’s crimes were his own. Drift was ready to move on from the Dead End. There were wrongs he needed to right. He knew where each of the dragons he had hunted had been sold. It was his duty to undo some of the damage he had done, and truly he was ready to go. Ratchet would not look at him. Ratchet did not let Drift touch him. Maybe, maybe if he could show Ratchet how sorry he was, and how committed he was to make it right, maybe the medic would forgive him. Maybe. It was the only hope he had in any case. All he wanted in this moment was to kiss Ratchet goodbye but after Ratchet had declared him repaired, he had disappeared back down that tunnel, and Drift knew he was not welcome to follow. It hurt. But he deserved the pain. He stepped out into darkness. If any of the dragons saw him, Drift knew he would be a dead mech. They were not wrong to hate him. Maybe if he liberated those dragons he had helped sell, they might begin to forgive him. Hope. It seemed like the only thing he could do was hope.

***

Faster. Drift drove from Petrex as though he had Unicron on his tailpipe. The port had rebuilt after that disastrous fire, but its influence in the region had ebbed. Traders mostly ignored it now. They had more prosperous places in which they could hock their goods. He doubted the dragons minded too much. It had to have been worrisome to live so close to so much industry... an industry that had largely been backed by the sale of their components. It was ugly. So ugly. Though he had arrived in Petrex with the sole intent of bringing First Aid to Ratchet, Drift had left the young mech... young dragon at the port. First Aid was not fast enough, and speed meant everything. As he followed the pockmarked road, Drift was desperately afraid he would not be fast enough. As he had stood on the deck of the ship with First Aid, he had seen the Death’s Head going around the bend and Lockdown calmly walking into the woods.

Lockdown had come back for another round. If had not seemed like he was chasing any particular dragon. Could he just have been trolling the coast? That was danger enough. Drift had to warn Ratchet. He would warn the village. They certainly would not take his glyph for it. Could he prove it? No. But even if they did not believe his warning, they would be on guard. These mechanisms had managed to live in that little village for vorns without anyone uncovering them, and they had not managed that by burying their helms in the ground. He drove past the creek where his last hunt had ended. There was no sign of Lockdown yet. But that did not mean he was not out there. He was. Drift knew he was. As he drove past the winding trail to the bluffs he saw ped prints in the snow. That place he would avoid. The dragons that lived under the pretty little houses had effortlessly dispatched the hunters. They would not hesitate to kill him, before he got the chance to warn them. Ratchet’s clinic came into view. This was not how he had wanted to return but Drift transformed on the base of the steps and burst inside.

“Drift!” Ratchet exclaimed. His arms shot up, around himself. Not around himself. Around a bundle of blankets. Not a bundle of blankets. A newling! The chieftain, the very dragon who had first claimed the bluffs, turned slowly towards Drift like a pneumalion ready to strike.

“Lockdown’s back!” Drift exclaimed, raising his servos. If the dragon struck now, at least he had warned them.

“We know,” the chieftain... Punch was his designation, replied. “We saw his ship.”

“He isn’t on it!” Drift said. “I saw him walking into the woods.”

“He won’t find anyone,” Punch said. “We don’t go for strolls in the woods when _hunters_ are about.”

“But... the bluffs. I saw tracks in the snow coming from the road... or the woods.”

“We don’t walk that way,” Punch said.

“You said Jazz and Ricochet went after the boat,” Ratchet interjected.

“And the mechlings. They didn’t want Smokey to have all the glory. Cade ‘n Prowl are on their nests. I’ll kill that piece of slag!”

“He’s tricky!” Drift said. “He’s found the village. He’s looking for something _here._ You need to get help. They aren’t going to listen to me.”

“Devcon... If you think I trust ya wit the lives of my grandcreations...”

“He has to be stopped,” Ratchet said. “Get Jazz, go up through the dock. We’ll cover the house.”

“You are staying here!” Drift said.

“We can agree on that,” Punch said. “Get into yer cave, Ratchet ‘n seal the door. Don’t open it ‘til we come back.”

“I am not hiding...”

“Yes you fragging are,” Drift snapped. “Ratchet! Think! Look at what you’re holding.”

“If he touches ‘em, y’re dead,” Punch warned. “If if Ricochet don’t end ya. Jazz will. ‘N they’d be mean.”

“I... I won’t let you down. Not again.”

“Drift,” Ratchet said.

“What are you waiting for, Ratchet?” Drift asked. “Hide!”

Punch was transforming before he was fully out the door. For a dragon meant to swim in the sea he was quick on land. Drift only waited long enough to see Ratchet seal himself in the cave, than he transformed and drove for the bluffs. He drove to the point where he had first seen the ped prints and followed them up to the trio of homes. Staying low, he followed the ped prints as they circle the first home, and then on to the second. The ped prints stopped here, and with his anxiety rising, Drift quietly slipped inside. It was not his first break in, and it was hardly a break in at all. The door silently slid open. Ped prints of snow led Drift into the living room. There was a tunnel. Like the one in Ratchet’s clinic. All at once he understood what the village was hiding. Each hut, hovel and happy home hid an underground lair. This explained by the lights all went out after dark. The dragons were taking the opportunity to move about in their dragon mode.

Cade and Prowl were on their nests. Drift did not recognize the designations, but he had a good guess as to why they were vulnerable, and why they were valued. Lockdown had bragged about killing a brooding dragon and selling the eggs. He had murdered an originator as he cared for his creations. Drift had not known him or helped him then but he still felt horrendous guilt for ever working alongside the hunter. Moving as quickly as he could, and as quietly as he could, Drift followed the tunnel deeper and deeper into the bluffs. With his swords in his servos, he stalked his most dangerous prey. With each passing step, Drift feared he had been too late but then he hurt shouting.

“They were bitlets!” Devcon... Punch had mentioned him. Lockdown’s creation had survived the hunt and somehow ended up here with the dragons. Funny how the idea gave him hope. “You killed their origin and then sold them to Swindle! There’d been others too but Swindle didn’t bother to incubate them. He sold them... He cook them. You’re a monster!”

Drift saw Devcon standing atop a nest. He had a gun pointing and Lockdown’s helm. For his part, Lockdown did not look the least bit concerned. Though Devcon was a bit of a distraction, Drift did not trust that he could sneak up on Lockdown unnoticed. Slowly, he inched a little closer. As he did, Lockdown stepped deeper into the cavern. Devcon cursed his progenitor as Lockdown laughed. Dragons were just clever beasts. The dragon he was protecting so heroically was only keeping him around to feed his little monsters when they hatched. In this world of theirs it was kill or be killed, eat or be eaten. He reminded Devcon of the Vosian tradition of eating a slain enemy’s spark chamber. Drift saw sickness on Devcon’s face. His arm was shaking. Lockdown was moving, but he isn’t the only one. As Drift raised his swords to strike Lockdown down he was saw the hunter wrenched into the air. Lockdown screamed in agony as the dragon snapped his jaws and bit him in half. Lockdown saw his lower half swallowed before his upper half followed. Devcon moaned and held his chassis, and the dragon lumbered over to his. Drift inched forward. While Lockdown had had it coming, Devcon could still be called innocent. Hunting had never been his choice.

The dragon did not bit Devcon. He rested his helm on the edge of the nest, and curled his neck around the young mech. Devcon turned into his neck, and buried his face in the shimmering scales. This was a crystals dragon. Smaller than Ratchet had been in his dragon mode, the crystal dragon was bigger than the sea dragons. From the edge of the cavern, Drift heard the dragon crooning. Lockdown had been wrong. This dragon had no intention of eating Devcon. He cared about him. Drift thought better of interfering, what could he do anyways? But before he could back up, Drift heard a low snarl, saw the shadow caste over him just before another dragon knocked him down. Drift just barely had time to roll before the dragon’s talons pinned him on his back. Letting his servos fall open, the former hunter tried to make himself look as harmless as possible. As gentle as the crystal dragon tending to Devcon appeared to be, the one standing over him snarled viciously.

“Leave him, Barricade,” the calm dragon said. “I believe he only came to help.”

“You sure, Prowl?” Barricade asked. He was a glorious and terrifying beast. His scales were mostly black and purple, save for his face which was a stunning gold. Lockdown would have been thrilled to catch this one.

“Fairly.”

“Deadlock?” Devcon called that designation.

“I’d prefer Drift... if it isn’t too much trouble.”

“He’s Ratchet’s, Barricade.”

“That’s one dragon I don’t wanna make made,” Barricade grumbled. “What did you do with the other one?”

“He ate him!” Drift exclaimed. He winced as soon as he blurted out the glyphs.

“I am not in the habit of wasting fuel,” Prowl declared. With a slinky movement he climbed back into his nest, but he did not disappear. He left his helm on the edge, watching. “We do not actually make a habit of preying on your kind, Drift. There is better fuel. Warwhale, for one. But if a hunter comes into my cave and threatens my young, I am not leaving a scrap to be buried.”

“Prowl!” Out of nowhere another dragon appeared, barrelling past Barricade who still kept Drift pinned. This dragon was a sea dragon, black and white with blue tips on his helm, he leaned his helm down and snarled in Drift’s face.

“We are all fine, Jazz,” Prowl said. “Devcon distracted Lockdown long enough for me to catch him off guard.”

“And this one?” Jazz asked.

“Was sneaking up on Lockdown. Perhaps we should consider him reformed.”

“We’ll see.”

All at once, another pair of dragons appeared. Drift recognized one as Punch. The other was new to him... No. He had seen him during the hunt. Barricade removed his claws from Drift’s chassis as this dragon nuzzled him, almost aggressively. They disappeared back down the tunnel. Of course, Prowl and ‘Cade were both on their nests. Somewhere in this maze was another nest. Punch looked down at Drift, who thought better of moving. Jazz stepped passed them and climbed into the nest. He was shameless in the way he loved on Prowl. He did not ignore Devcon but crooned over him to. These dragons had adopted the mech... As a hatchling? Or what. Another dragon burst in and Devcon opened his arms, and the dragon nuzzled him, and transformed. A young Praxian took his place and he pulled Devcon into a tight hug. Drift had seen some Praxians in the village, only ever at a distance. Apart from Ratchet he had not tried to get close to anyone. Could all of those Praxians have been dragons?

“I could lie,” Punch said. The conversational tone was disconcerting. “I could say ya ran. I could say ya were in league wit that scrap. He would never know ‘n I would never need to worry ‘bout ‘m leavin’. But that would be wrong. It would make me no better than ‘m. ‘N I choose to be better. Get up. ‘N get out. Ya can tell Ratchet the coast is clear.”

“What about the Death’s Head?” Drift asked. “Is it still on the water?”

“Oh no. It’s under water,” Punch chuckled. “This time no one is leavin’ who knows where or what we are. Except ya, I suppose. But ya best see Ratchet before ya think ‘bout boltin’.”

“He had a bitlet.”

“He did.”

“He didn’t tell me. I didn’t deserve to know.”

“Hmm. There may be hope for ya yet. Go spring ‘m before he goes stir crazy. Ya can tell ‘m we don’t need his craft.”

Drift did not argue. When the dragon released him, Drift rose, bowed awkwardly and returned from whence he had come. As soon as he was outside, he ran. It explained more why Ratchet had acted the way he had. He had known. He had known and he had not wanted Drift to know. Drift could not blame him but damn how it hurt. As unworthy as he felt, as guilt ridden as he felt, Drift still wanted. He doubted he would ever stop wanting. Before he left for good, or even for now, he needed to collect First Aid from the port. But before that, he had to see Ratchet, he had to see their creation, if only this one time. Though he was not in a race against time, Drift felt like he was. It took a bream at most to reach the clinic. As always the door was unlocked. He went to the supply closet that hid the tunnel and knock lightly. In only nanokliks the secret wall slid away, revealing Ratchet. Immediately, Drift felt his hackles rise.

“Were you just sitting by the door?” He asked.

“Yes,” Ratchet replied. There was familiar temper in his tone, and familiar exhaustion on his face. He had their creation cradled to his chassis.

“What if Lockdown had come crashing through?” Drift demanded. “You need to recharge. You look exhausted.”

“I don’t need you fussing over me,” Ratchet retorted.

“Yes, you do. Or you need someone to do it because you sure don’t take care of yourself!”

There was no strong arming Ratchet, but Drift made the attempt. He placed his servo low on Ratchet’s back and nudged him down the tunnel. It opened up into his lair... den... thing... The next was lined with blankets, a change. Or at least Drift thought it was a change. His memories from that dark-cycle were spotty, and he had been paying more attention to the dragon than the nest. No. Drift was sure the blankets and pillows were new. Ratchet did not need his servo when he stepped down into his nest, but he accepted it anyways. Drift was grateful. He adored Ratchet’s servos. Still, he let it go, let Ratchet go. His old lover sank into the blankets, into a well worn rut in the mass of blankets. Once he got settled, he rearranged the newling and put him over a fuel line. Drift heard the moment the newling latched. Tired as he was, Ratchet was putting their creation first.

“What did you designate him?” Drift asked, selfishly, as he looked out from the outside of the nest.

“Triage,” Ratchet replied. “Just come in. Sit down. You can see him. If you want.”

“That’s about all I want right now.” Drift confessed. He sat next to Ratchet and watched with an ecstatic spark as Ratchet lowered the blankets so Drift could see their creation. Triage was a hardly newling with the look of his origin. Drift found himself hoping he had inherited his origin’s temperament too.

“How did you see the Death’s Head?” Ratchet asked, uncharacteristically quiet. “Why are you back?”

“I was bringing a sea dragon over from Kaon. He didn’t knew where his clan came from so I thought I should bring him to you... He’s got a knack for healing, and you’d been saying you needed an assistant.”

“How’d you find him?”

“I remember every place we made a sale. I’ve been trying to retrace out steps so I can bust each dragon out. I can’t undo what I did. But at least I can do this.”

“You never said you were going to.”

“I didn’t want to. This is my restitution for my sins. It isn’t... I’m not doing it to earn your forgiveness. I can’t ask for that. I’m doing it because I need to because I’ve done so many terrible things.”

“Why’d you hook up with Lockdown? How?”

“He was looking for new hands on the Death’s Head. He promised good shanix. I wanted to be worth something.”

“You always were.”


	15. Matchstick Girl

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Very loosely inspired the Little Match Girl by Hans Christian Anderson. Very. Very. Very LOOSELY inspired.
> 
> Despite the frigus cold, Smokescreen has to sell his matches or face a beating when he goes home. In the flames of the matches he's supposed to be selling Smokescreen sees visions of a different life.

It was so cold. Smokescreen lit one of the magnesium crystals he was hold and held it up as he walked amongst the market, with nothing more than a tattered old cloak hanging over his doorwings to keep out the brutal cold. No one so much as looked at him. Holding the crystal as close to himself as he dared, Smokescreen feared. The streets were full of shoppers with arms full of packages and gifts. It was the eave of the Lunar New Year, one of the most important festivals in Praxus. These mechanisms spoke in bright and happy voices as they discussed their dark-cycle plans. They talked about visiting the temple, and visiting family.

Smokescreen thought wistfully of sitting by the hearth as someone told stories. When he looked into the crystal’s flame, he could almost see the hearth, and feel the heat. The small flame flickered out, and Smokescreen deflated. He was so cold. His cloak was too small to wrap around himself. Though he had asked for a new one, his progenitor had snarled that he had to earn it. Anxiety filled his young spark; Smokescreen had not made a single sale, and the mega-cycle seemed to only be getting colder. It was too late to go back home to fetch his thread worn blanket. Next ‘cycle he might try using it in lieu of the cloak. Except them what would he wrap around himself as he recharged? The floor made for a cold berth in the dark-cycle. His progenitor was too miserly to turn the heat up much at all, even in the cold of frigus.

Smokescreen needed to make a sale. If he returned without a single shanix, his progenitor would beat him for certain. Desperate to both escape the hellish cold, and to avoid a beating, Smokescreen climbed onto the very top of the dormant fountain in the middle of the market, in hopes of making himself seen. He called out to the window browsers, and held out his magnesium crystals. Snow fell, and he shivered as he lit another crystal and tried to warm himself. In the flame he saw a vision of a feast. Dynametal duck, chrome alloy pie and fuels he had never even imagined tasting. The cold wind killed the snuffed out the crystal, and vision disappeared with the flame.

“Down from there,” a stern voice ordered.

The enforcer had a thick cloak drape around him. He looked terrifying and imposing as he looked up at Smokescreen from the copplestones. Smokescreen thought of his progenitor and froze. Though he tried, Smokescreen could not convince his peds to work and he shivered where he stood. As the enforcer climbed onto the ledge of the fountain and reached for him, Smokescreen cringed as the terrifying mech’s servos closed around his waist, and pulled him towards him. Smokescreen went limp as the enforcer held him to his chassis as he climbed down from the fountain. He was so warm. The mechling could not help himself, his optics dimmed. His digit curled into the edge of the enforcer’s chassis arm. His progenitor had taught Smokescreen to fear enforcers, and this was had seemed to him to be especially terrifying, with optics the colour of ice. But he was so warm.

“You need to go home,” the enforcer ordered as he lowered Smokescreen to the ground, and gently adjusted the mechling’s worn cloak around his doorwings. “It is much too cold for you to be outside.”

“Yes, sir,” Smokescreen said.

He wanted so badly to jump back into the enforcer’s arms and to bask in his warmth for just a little while. Instead he wondered deeper into the market, glancing back to see the enforcer was watching him go. Smokescreen could not go home. His progenitor would beat him and toss him back out into the street to sell the Primus forsaken crystals. But if the enforcer thought he was not going, then he might escort Smokescreen home himself. If his progenitor saw him return with an enforcer escort, he would be enraged. The beating he would bring down on Smokescreen would be worse than just that for his failure to make any sales. So he walked off around the corner, and away from that terrifying, yet so warm, enforcer.

Smokescreen ducked between to rows of tenements and curled up in the shadows. He would rest a bream or so, and then he would return. Surely the enforcer would have moved on by then. Plating clattering with the cold, Smokescreen lit another crystal and held it close. In the flame he saw a family. Though he did not see their faces he felt as if they were his, and Smokescreen could almost feel himself being held in warm and loving arms. As the flame flickered out, the vision and the warmth disappeared. Smokescreen lit another and he saw a Lunar shrine, and he could almost see himself reaching out to light the resin offering. In the flame he saw gifts and heard laughter. When the flame died, so did the laughter. Smokescreen lit another crystal and saw his grand-origin. He saw himself being pulled into his lap and rocked gently next to a warm hearth. The only person who had ever loved him had been his grand-origin. This time, as the flame flickered Smokescreen quickly lit another crystal, and then another. He saw a shooting star, and Smokescreen held on to the vision until darkness fell, and the last crystal flickered out, and the expended crystal tumbled into the snow as his digits went limp.

“Oh no!” The voice was enough to pull Smokescreen up to the edge of awareness. He felt someone dusty snow off his helm and back, and he was lifted up into the arms of someone so warm. “No. No. No. So cold... Are you even alive?”

The fear in the voice did not reach him. Smokescreen basked in the warmth and floated in a peace he had never known before. Someone held him close, held their cloak around him closed so the wind and the snow could not touch him. As he drifted, Smokescreen’s lipplates turned up in a smile. It was so nice to be warm. He was jostled as someone ran up a long flight of stairs, but he hardly felt it. The arms cradling him did not loosen. Smokescreen was safe, and he was warm. Dimly he was aware of a bright light over his helm, and a door being slammed in the distance.

“Jazz, Primus, help me!”

“Prowler, sweetspark, ya a’ight? Are ya hurt?”

“No! Comm Ratchet. He is so cold.”

“He... oh frag he’s like ice. Sit down by the heath. I’ll comm Ratchet.”

Smokescreen saw his grand-origin as the mech holding him sat in a chair, that gently rocked as they settled. As the mech’s engine rumbled softly, Smokescreen felt like he was home. Someone stripped his cloak away, along with that of the mech holding him. The room was warm, the mech holding with warmer. Distantly he heard someone talking but Smokescreen did not understand the glyphs. A blanket was draped over his back. A servo stroked over his helm. There were more whispers, distant like a dream. As a servo cupped his cheek, Smokescreen brightened his optics, just a little. He saw a shooting star, and sighed as his helm rolled back against a strong mech’s shoulder.


	16. Sick

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prowl is sick with guilt when he finds the sparkling from the market half dead in the snow. In a state where repairs can come at a terrible cost he and Jazz are fortunate to call Ratchet a friend.

“Ratchet’s comin’, Prowler,” Jazz said as he came to join Prowl at the hearth. “How is he?”

“Dying,” Prowl replied.

He could not see through the tears that had filled his optics. It took every bit of strength he had in him to keep from sobbing. The mechling had gone completely limp. All Prowl could do was hold the little crystal peddler against his frame as he ran his engine as hard as he could. But the mechling was so still, so cold it did not seem like this could be enough. Guilt overwhelmed him and he hung his helm as Jazz stood over him, looking down at the limp mechling. His sparkmate brushed the tears away, but only more spilled. Prowl bit his lip to keep a keen from breaking from his vocalizer.

“Don’t say that, lover,” Jazz admonished him, gently. “He’s still got colour. He’ll come ‘round once ya’ve warmed ‘m up.”

“I told him to go home,” Prowl said. “He was standing on the fountain trying to get the shoppers’ attention. I thought he would fall and break a strut so I picked him up and sent him home. He did not go home. I should have taken him.”

“Shh. Ya couldn’t’ve known. He ‘o stayed out. How in Primus’ designation did ya find ‘m.”

“I was coming home. I saw a pile of scrap in the alley. It was not scrap. It was this mechling all covered in snow. Mechanisms must have been walking passed him for joors.”

“Ratchet’ll put’m right, Prowl. He’ll be fine, you’ll see. It was a lucky thing ya spotted’m.”

Jazz was a natural optimist. It was one of the things about him that awed Prowl so much, and one the aspects to the mech that had drawn Prowl in. How someone who had experience such abject poverty and persecution could see so much light in the world forever boggled his mind. He did not have this same optimism in him, Prowl considered himself a reforming fatalist. Reforming, because Jazz gave him hope and light, things Prowl did not easily see without guidance. Prowl needed help seeing it now, and Jazz knew this without being told. He would have known without the bond; Jazz had from their first interaction an eerie ability to see through Prowl’s facades, and to see him. But with the bond it was effortless, and ease because Prowl’s spark was an open and disorderly book. His sparkmate leaned in close, gently cupping the mechling’s helm as he ran his systems hot, helping Prowl to warm him. He kissed Prowl’s face, wherever he found a tear. Prowl could not help but smile. Jazz had way of melting him.

“Ya didn’t walk passed ‘m, Prowl, my love. Ya looked. After working an orn o’ triple shifts straight, ‘n bein’ just ‘bout dead on yer peds, ya looked. I wish ya could appreciate just how _good_ ya are. The person to blame for’m gettin’ frozen is the sack o’ slag that had’m sellin’ crystals in this weather.”

“I should have taken him home.”

“Maybe home wasn’t safe,” Jazz replied. “Sometimes it ain’t.”

“Maybe,” Prowl frowned. “No one reported a missing sparkling.”

“Sounds like neglect at best ‘n negligence at worse.”

The was a ping at the door but neither mech moved. Ratchet let himself in. Jazz’s history had left him largely suspicious of the establishment. Having grown up in the Dead End, the less than cheerful nickname given to the slums of Polihex, Jazz had good reason not to trust. Repairs did not come free at the medicentres, and often times the price might be a piece of yourself. This was how the mechanisms dubbed Empties had come to be. These were mechanisms who had been forced to sell physical pieces of themselves to stay alive. It degradation had left them broken in processor and in frame. Jazz had only been spared that fate by fortune. The free clinic Ratchet had founded had only just opened for business when Jazz had been badly beaten by a patron. The extent of the necessary repairs would have cost him dearly. But Ratchet had repaired him at no cost at all, and Jazz had refused to see any medic since.

After they had become involved, Jazz had insisted Prowl give Ratchet a try. As an enforcer, most of his repairs were covered by the precinct, as well as some frame maintenance. Still the routine maintenance related to his glitch had not been covered, due to being pre-existing conditions, and so those costs had come from Prowl’s credit slug. These had been costs he had not often been bothered to face. Before Jazz had dragged Prowl over to the clinic, it had been five vorns since Prowl had seen a medic. Ratchet had given him slag for letting his maintenance lapse that badly, but he had gotten Prowl caught up. He had given Prowl a prescription for a specific formula of med-grade to reduce his crashes and recovery time, and it had all done free of charge. Prowl had given him the donation he could afford and since then, Ratchet remained his physician. They had seen a lot of him of late. He and Jazz had been trying for vorns to kindle. Prowl’s spark was receptive. Jazz’s was contributive. Everything seemed well matched but Prowl’s spark refused to ignite, and he did not burn hot enough to enspark Jazz. Ratchet had found no explanation, and had only been able to tell them that these things could take time. Prowl was certain there was some fault in him. His spark was just too cold to kindle.

“You brought a mechling home?” Ratchet asked as he joined them. “Where in Primus’ designation did you find him?”

“Frozen in an alley,” Prowl replied. “He had to have been there for joors. I sent him home from the market at eleven joor. I found him at one.”

“We’re going to talk about these joors you’ve been working,” Ratchet warned him. Prowl did not sigh. There would be no escaping it. Jazz was not happy with these triple shifts he had been working either. “First let’s put the mechling in joor berth. I have warming blankets to finish warming him back up.”

“Yes, Ratchet.”

Prowl carried the mechling to the berthroom he shared with his sparkmate. The young mech did not so much as twitch, and Prowl could not escape the fear writhing through his spark that he had come too late. Ratchet placed a warming blanket down first and Prowl lowered him to it. There were tiny cracks in the plating of the mechlings legs and doorwings from where the cold had made the metal brittle. The medic ran his scanners over the sparking, working quietly. It terrified Prowl. He watched Ratchet apply sensors to the mechling’s chassis, and covered him in another warming blanket before applying two more sensors to his helm.

“I don’t think you found him a nanoklik too soon,” Ratchet declared. “When his temperature reaches optimal levels, I’ll see to all of those cracks. The poor thing hasn’t had fuel in mega-cycles at best, and his self-repair systems are non-existent.”

“Perhaps he was living on the street,” Prowl said, doorwings fallling, servos curling into fists. “Perhaps there was no home for him to return to.”

“Not yer fault, Lover,” Jazz crooned, and he lifted Prowl’s servo to his mouth and kissed his knuckles. “Why don’t ya sit down, ‘n I’ll bring ya something warm to drink. Ya were out in that slag for eighteen joors.”

“Eighteen joor?” Ratchet asked with a low growl.

“For the last orn,” Jazz tattled and Prowl gave him a loving but weary look.

“There have been staff shortages,” Prowl explained.”

“Because a bunch o’ them are in hole for gettin’ caught up in that Syk bust,” Jazz declared. “Ya broke that case open ‘n they rewarded ya by makin’ ya work eighteen joor outta a twenty joor mega-cycle. I ain’t even see ya once ‘till now ‘cause ya been rechargin’ in the precinct.”

“Since I can’t do anything but monitor the sparkling until his temperature rises a bit more, we’ll say it’s joor turn, Prowl,” Ratchet declared. “Take take a seat. Jazz, get him that fuel, not pressed, real energon.”

“Ya got it.”

There was no refusing the medic. Both because it would upset Jazz, but also because Ratchet was significantly bigger than Prowl, and if he wanted Prowl to sit, he would be sitting. He sat on the foot of the berth, and made a conscious effort to keep himself from slumping. This last orn had been exhausting. At least, now it was over. It should have been over seven joors ago. Prowl should have been home in time to join Jazz at his kin’s feast. But when Flatfoot had asked him to work yet more overtime, Prowl had not argued. It had not been a matter of credits. They had enough. Jazz’s star had been rising since they had first met. He no longer had to performed in brothels but on the stage of independent theatres. Prowl knew he had more mechanisms than ever asking to be his patrons. But he also knew Jazz refused them every time. Jazz was no longer living on the edge of ruin, not since they had moved in together. Two salaries were far superior to one. They thrived together. The theatres did not pay well, but they paid better than brothels or busking. Combined with Prowl’s enforcer earnings, they had saved enough to purchase this habsuite in a four story walk up. It was an ancient building. Sometimes the floor creaked, but Prowl adored every corner of it. They had purchased it with the indent of turning the second berthroom into a nursery. But there was still no newling.

“Flip your hatch,” Ratchet order, referring to the cover protecting the port on the back of his neck. Prowl obeyed, and he waited for the lecture. He did not have to wait long. “Pressed energon isn’t a substitute for recharge, Prowl.”

“I know.”

“A _joor_ a mega-cycle?” Ratchet asked.

“Shift are six joors long,” Prowl explained.

“Fragging Pit. You are not working tomorrow.”

“He’s not,” Jazz said as he return with a steaming mug of warmed energon. “He’s got the orn off. Ya do, don’t ya?”

“I do. Flatfoot hinted about concerns over staffing but I did not acknowledge the hint.”

“‘M glad.” Jazz placed the mug of energon in Prowl’s servos. “My ‘creators were sorry ya missed the feast. They sent fuel back wit me for ya. I thought ya might enjoy it more after ya get some charge.”

“That was kind of them.”

“I know ya don’t think they do, but they do really like ya.”

They did not. Prowl had not been in the same room with Jazz’s kin since they had announced their intent to bond. The accusations they had thrown in his face had made his sick to his tank; they still did vorns later. His own procreators did not know of the match, but it was not because he was hiding it. When he had refused their match for him, they had disowned him. His spark kin had not idea where he lived. It was no great loss. Jazz’s procreators, two progenitors and an originator, were all alive, and his brother lived close. Close enough that Prowl walked passed their job multiple times a mega-cycle iff he was patrolling the market.

To say they had strongly disapproved of Jazz bonding to an enforcer was an understatement. They were poor mechanisms. After serving for vorns in Polihex’s army they had been discharged when the war with Uraya had finally ended. Though they should all have received pensions, they had not. This injustice had led to vorns filled with poverty and suffering, and too many run ins with enforcers as they had tried to make a life for themselves and their creations. They had all served time in detention, mostly for smuggling. Jazz had been charged with unlicensed prostitution though that charge was dismissed before going to trial. Interfacing with a patron was not illegal. Courtesan were a caste of their own. Of course their troubles had not ended there.

Ricochet’s arrest had almost certainly been nothing but an act of intimidation by enforcers with side businesses as smugglers and gangsters, but he had been convicted at trial and sentenced to hard labour anyways. Prowl had not met him yet. He was supposed to have met him at the feast he had just missed. In more recent vorns the family had scraped enough credits together to open a gadget job in the east end of the market. Prowl knew they did not trust him not to abuse Jazz as they had been abused. He understood their fears, really he did. Still, he hated to be watched in the way they watched him. When Flatfoot had informed him he needed to work the third shift, Prowl had not been entirely disappointed. Perhaps he was a bit of a coward.

“Mm...” The mechling moaned and Prowl forgot everything else. Though he wanted to lunge forward and to see for himself if the sparkling was actually coming around, he did not want to get in Ratchet’s way. He drank the cube Jazz had given him, and watched.

“Hello, little one,” Ratchet spoke sweetly to the sparkling. He save his berthside manner for his youngest patients. “Can you online your optics?”

“Mhm,” the sparkling did as the medic asked but dragged his servos up to shield his face from the glare of the lights.

“That’s good. Jazz can you warm this med-grade for me?”

“Sure.”

“Where am I?” The mechling asked his voice was rough from the intense cold he had suffered. “Who are you?”

“I’m Medic Ratchet. A friend of mine found you in the alley, and brought you home for me to see to. “What’s your designation?”

“Smokescreen.

“You got a little too cold, Smokescreen. Were you lost?”

“I didn’t sell the crystals. I was just gonna nap and then try again. I can go home until I sell them.”

“What happens if you don’t sell the crystals?” Ratchet asked.

“My ‘genitor’ll hit me. We need shanix. I have to sell the crystals or we won’t fuel.”

“It’s his responsibility to make sure you fuel,” Ratchet said. “Let sit you up a little so you can drink some med-grade before I mend those cracks.”

“We don’t have shanix for a medic.”

“I’m not billing anyone. Come on, sit up, sweetspark.”

“You’re the enforcer from the market!” Smokescreen exclaimed when he spotted Prowl sitting on the berth.

“I am. My designation is Prowl.”

“Am I in trouble? Because I didn’t go home?”

“No!” Prowl cringed. He wished so badly some times to return to Praxus, thought he thought the enforcers of his homeland must have been as corrupt as those of Polihex. In any case, they would never want him back now that he had bonded to a Polihexian, never mind a convicted criminal and former courtesan. “You became very ill sitting in the snow. My only concern at the moment is that you get well.”

“Is this you’re home?” Smokescreen asked.

“Yes. Mine and my Conjunx Endura’s.”

“Good to see ya got yer optics online,” Jazz said as he returned with the med-grade. “Here ya go, Ratchet.”

“Thanks. Drink, slowly. When was the last time you fuelled, Smokescreen?”

“Umm... Three mega-cycles?” Smokescreen replied. He drank from the med-grade Ratchet held to his lipplates. He glanced over at Prowl, and then back to the medic. “I stole a roll from the bakery.”

“Just a roll?” Ratchet asked.

“Uh huh.”

Prowl looked over to Jazz and saw rage on his handsome face, and felt it in his spark. It was no wonder Smokescreen had not gone home, despite the cold, and despite Prowl’s order. His only hope of fuelling was either a lucky steal, or a sale, and he had obviously gotten neither. In Prowl’s optics this was clearly a case of criminal neglect but such offences were largely beneath the notice of Straxus’ law. If the mech had not run off, or died in a ditch somewhere, he was unlikely to face much more than a glossa latching. It grieved Prowl so much. He wanted a creation so desperately, but could not kindle, and yet mechanisms who abused and neglected their creations seemed to create indiscriminately.

Ratchet was sweet and gentle with the mechling. He sealed the many cracks the cold had made in Smokescreen’s plating. For his part, Smokescreen sat stoically though the treatment. In fact, he was oddly unresponsive to Ratchet’s ministrations on his doorwings. Could his sensory grid be malfunctioning? Smokescreen yawned and Prowl just wanted to hold him. Jazz tugged Prowl into his arms and kissed him tenderly. The mechling giggled, and Prowl’s plating flushed with embarrassment. It was enough to make him want to pull away but he stayed in his arms, even lowering his helm to Jazz’s shoulder. He was tired, so bitterly tired.

“What setting to you have your doorwings ate?” Ratchet asked.

“Zero. So they don’t hurt.”

“From the cold?”

“From my ‘genitor hitting them.”

“He ain’t gonna hit ya again,” Jazz promised the very thing that was in Prowl’s spark. “I’ll have a talk wit ‘m.”

“He’s really scary.”

“Not as scary as me.”

“Can you give me your habsuite’s address?” Prowl asked. “I need to speak to your progenitor regarding this business with the crystals.”

“He’ll get mad. He hits me when he’s mad.”

“You will stay here with Jazz were it is warm. He will not hit me.”

Prowl wished that he would as he returned to the chair he had abandoned and retrieved his cloak. He did not intend to return the mechling this dark-cycle. In the time it took to reach the address, just around the corner from where Prowl had found Smokescreen, and thus no so far from his own habsuite, Prowl hoped to come up with some reasonable grounds to put stasis cuffs on the mech. In the back of Prowl’s processor he knew he did not need just cause. If he wanted to, he could do what the enforcers had done to Ricochet. As he pulled his cloaked over his doorwings and clasped it had his throat, he cursed himself for considering. Yet consider it he did.

“I love ya,” Jazz said as he tugged Prowl’s cloak so it fell evenly over both doorwings.

“I love too,” Prowl replied. “I am sorry... I...”

“I hope he gives ya a reason to kick his aft.”

“This is not the New Year you wanted.”

“We have tomorrow ‘n the next two orns. Will ya let me invite my family o’er, ‘n have our own feast some time while yer off.”

“You do not need my permission to have your family over.”

“Lover, I know they make ya uneasy. They treated ya bad when we first got together. Ya got the right to keep yer distance. But they seen how amazin’ ya are for me. I hope y’ll give’em a chance to get to know ya.”

“Just do not ask me to cook.”

“No, wouldn’t do that to any o’ ya. Come back quick Prowl.”

Prowl wanted to give Jazz everything he could ever want, so he felt like he had little choice but to agree to the dinner. This was the same motivation behind him accepting the invitation to the feast. Except there would be no work to keep him safely away. If they did conduct themselves better, Jazz would be happy, Prowl would be... he would be satisfied. Some kind of reconciliation matter to Jazz and that was enough reason to try. If they behaved in the same way as they had before, Prowl would not see them again. Jazz could have whatever relationship he wanted with his kin. It did not have to include him.

There was no lock on the door leading into the small, and cramped tenement. Dozens of small habsuites were stacked together. Multiple families all lived on top of each other. He was familiar with this kind of situation; Prowl had lived in a tenement just liked it when he had first moved to Polihex. The pittance he had been paid as a constable had been too little to afford a private habsuite. He had shared a single room berth-sit with five other mechs. It had been a hellish environment and Prowl had taken security jobs and scrimped and saved in hopes of getting a private habsuite. At one of these security jobs he had met Jazz. Life had been so much better since that dark-cycle.

He found the unit number Smokescreen had given him and knocked on the door. It was a particular knock, one that told anyone who saw it that the enforcers were there. Down the hallway, another door opened and Prowl freed his doorwing from his cloak to better observe the witness. The door shut quickly. Still, Prowl did not lower his doorwing. Prowl hammered on the door again. It was loud enough to wake the dead. Yet Smokescreen’s progenitor did not appear. Could he have been out looking for Smokescreen? Perhaps Prowl would walk the market, just in case. That door at the end of the hall opened again, and this time, Prowl walked over to speak to them.

“Do you know if the resident is at home?” Prowl asked.

“Sideways?” The red minibot at a gruff voice. It matched his expression perfectly. “It’s the only place he ever is... Look he’s opening the door.”

“Sir. Sideways,” Prowl turned and caught the door before his quarry could latch it. “I am Enforcer 970351. I am here to speak to you regarding your minor creation Smokescreen.”

“What do ya want with the little scrap?” Sidesway asked. He leaned against the doorway. He stank of engex. One thing was clear, Prowl was not bringing the mechling back here this dark-cycle.

“Do you even know where you creations is?” Prowl asked, coolly. “You sent him out to sell crystals while you got charged off you aft. Did you even go looking for him when he did not come home?”

“Get off my aft, Enforcer.”

“Did you even go looking for Smokescreen as he nearly froze to death to buy your engex? Since he had not fuelled in mega-cycles he was most definitely not selling those crystals to pay for his own fuel.”

Sideways swung his fist. Given he was stumbling down charged, Prowl could easily have dodged. But he did not. He let the mech’s fist catch his jaw. It hurt. Stars burst in his vision but Prowl only took a single half step back. The sack of slag lurched out of the doorway after him and raised his fist to deal Prowl another blow. He fell like a load of bricks when Prowl jammed his shock stick into his side. The door at the end of the hall shut. Prowl brought a servo to his helm and engaged his comm. As he tilted his helm to get better reception, Sidesways slashed at his leg, knocking it out from under him. All Prowl was able to say as he connected to dispatch was: Unit to...

This should not have happened. Prowl was more tired than he had realized to make such an elementary mistake. He found himself grappling on the ground with an overcharged fool. Like him, Sideways was a Praxian in frame, and he knew well how best to disable one of their frametype. The mech was a street fighter, Prowl was not. But he was not untrained. He knocked Sideways servo away as he reached for Prowl’s doorwings. Prowl was tangled in his cloak. It hampered his movements. Before he realized it was happening, Sideways was on top of him. His servos were around Prowl’s throat. Prowl wrenched his trapped arm free from his cloak and slammed his fist into Sideways’ face just as enforcers came roaring in.

It was dawn when Prowl staggered home. The interviews with the detectives and the staff-sergeant on duty had taken joors. His frame ached. As he had engaged with Sideways when he was off duty, the precinct was not responsible for his repairs. In a few joors he would call Ratchet. The prospect of paying for his own repairs did not terrify him. Ratchet only asked for donations towards his practice. He would only take what Prowl could afford. But he was so tired he just wanted a few joors of recharge before he faced Ratchet. At this point, Prowl would gladly recharge on the floor. He assumed Jazz would be on the coach, given the mechling was on the berth. If Prowl was quiet he could just sneak in and...

“Prowl!”


	17. Warmth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ratchet is once again called to the habsuite. For Smokescreen there is something miraculous about coming home.
> 
> Sorry I couldn't get this up yesterday. Life is... Well. Life. I don't think I'll get today's prompt even started I have things to make for my side gig and things that pay me get priority.
> 
> I feel this is reasonable XD.

Prowl slumped against the doorway. He should have guessed that Jazz would stay up waiting for him. His beautiful mate ran to him and took him by the servos, drawing him inside. As soon as the door had latched at Prowl’s back, Jazz was tenderly probing the cracked plating of his cheek. It was impossible for Prowl not to wince; he had a growing suspicion that the hinge of his jaw was cracked if not fully broken. Still, apart from his broken servo, it was the worst of his injuries. All told, they were not so severe. They were a fair price to pay for both hubris and foolishness. Though he was exhausted, and terribly sore, Prowl stupid quietly as Jazz took stock of all his dents and scrapes.

“‘M callin’ Ratchet,” Jazz declared.

“He was only just here,” Prowl replied. “Give him a few joors to recharge.”

“Why didn’t the precinct take care o’ this?” Jazz asked as he examined Prowl’s broken servo.

“I was not on duty, therefore my injuries are not covered under the contract,” Prowl explained.

“Cheap bastards.”

“The fault is my own, Jazz. I wanted an excuse to arrest him. I let him punch me.”

“This?” Jazz asked, stroking his cheekplate.

“Yes. I hit him with my shock stick. I was alerting dispatch when he knocked my peds from under me.”

“These?” Jazz asked, digits gently brushing the dents on his back and doorwings.

“Yes.”

“What about these?” Jazz asked, mouth turned in a deep frown. He touched then dented cables on Prowl’s neck.

“I was tangled in my cloak. He had his servos around my neck before I got my servo free and knocked him out.”

“I am going to kill him.”

“You cannot say things like that to me.”

“Ya can’t testify against me anyways, Lover,” Jazz said. “Sit down, sweetspark. Ratchet’ll have my helm if I let ya sit ‘round like this for joors.”

“I only want to recharge.”

“After Ratchet’s through wit ya.”

Jazz sat on the couch and raised his servo to his helm to make the call. Prowl crawled into his lap and rested his helm on his shoulder. Despite the pain, and it was pain not merely aching, Prowl slipped into recharge as he listened to the familiar hum of Jazz’s system. He only stirred when Ratchet arrived, and even then, only when Jazz woke him. Whether it was pain or a lack of recharge that had him disoriented, Prowl could not say, either way his processor felt like it was stuck in tar. Bleary opticed, Prowl allowed himself to be arranged on the couch. Ratchet pushed the back down, turning into a tolerable berth. It had been purchased for when kin visited. No one ever did. As Ratchet examined him, with servos and scanners, Prowl almost dozed off again with his helm in Jazz’s lap, his sparkmate stroking his chevron.

“The hinge is just cracked,” Ratchet decreed. “Easy to fix at least. I hope the slagtard looks worse, Prowl.”

“Not by my servo.”

“I don’t approve of enforcer brutality,” Ratchet declared. “But he deserves to have his helm cave in, considering that mechling nearly died because of him. Tilt your helm back. Let me see your neck.”

“He gonna be alright?” Jazz asked. Prowl looked up at him. Why was that even a question? If he had been gravely damaged, he would have been transported to a medicentre and made to figure out how he was going to pay the bills later.

“He’ll be fine. The biggest thing Prowl needs is a long recharge. More than one, really. Your sparkmate is going to work himself into a short if he doesn’t watch.”

Prowl tried to listen, but as soon as Ratchet injected him with a pain blocker, he started to drift. Without pain keeping him online his alertness ebbed. He did not resist as Ratchet turned his helm and ran his plating regenerater over his cheek. The regenerator tickled but it was not enough to trouble Prowl and his optics dimmed. Jazz’s servo stroked his helm and Prowl might have sighed, he did not know for certain. He drifted lower. There was a servo on his neck, but it was gentle. Prowl trusted the touch. Soft voices droned above his helm, but Prowl paid them no mind. They were safe, he was safe with them. Prowl’s higher processors rumbled to life as Ratchet pressed a jet injector to his neck and released the contents into his energon line. His optics were bleary as he brightened them and looked up at Jazz.

“Time to roll over, Prowl,” Ratchet ordered. “I want to have a look at your back before I release into Jazz’s custody.”

“It is nothing serious,” Prowl replied, though he obeyed. Jazz guided Prowl to rest his helm again on his lap. “My cloak at least managed to act as something of a cushion.”

“Looks like you’re right,” Ratchet agreed as he performed his exam. “I’ll treat them anyways. I’m here.”

“I wouldn’t want to abuse your good graces.”

“Prowl, the only way you could get deeper into my bad books is if you had your fuel tank hanging out into your servos. You are going to spend every mega-cycle of your orns off relaxing with your sparkmate, or I will weld you to the berth and _make_ you rest. And when you get back onto duty your are absolutely not to work another triple shift for at least four quartexes.”

“Flatfoot will not agree to that condition,” Prowl replied.

“Just say no when he asks, Lover,” Jazz pleaded. Prowl wrapped his arm around his waist and clung to him. “We don’t need shanix. We can manage fine wit’out all that overtime. He don’t expect anyone else to be at his beck and call.”

“He does, but they have better excuses to refuse him.”

They had creations. Most of the other enforcers had creations. So far as Prowl knew, each of them had sired their mechlings and femmelings. Some of the more irritating of his coworkers had asked him when he was going to spark up the pretty minx he had bonded to. Prowl had yet to deign such questions with a response. He was absolutely not going to tell them it was he who was trying to spark. He who was failing. They would laugh; Prowl could almost hear it. To escape this imagined laughter and the bleak ache in his spark, Prowl cuddled against Jazz’s warm frame as the medic did his work, and he sighed as Jazz pet him with both servos. He had been working too much. Prowl had missed his sparkmate’s voice, his touch.

“I don’t suppose you heard what they’re going to do about the mechlings?” Ratchet asked as he levelled the dents in Prowl’s left doorwing. It tingled.

“He will need to be fostered while the courts sort out his progenitor,” Prowl replied, drowsily. “There is no other kin. I thought Jazz and I might as well. He is already here.”

“Of course, Lover,” Jazz crooned to him. Prowl felt his happiness at the idea and beamed. He had thought Jazz would approve, but there had still been a nagging fear. Prowl had desperately wanted to avoid putting the mechling into one of the workhouses. “I think that’s a brilliant idea.”

“I’m staying here?” Smokescreen asked. Prowl turned his helm to see the mechling was standing at the edge of the livingroom, the warming blanket draped over his shoulders. Given the shock his systems had received only joors earlier, he would likely be susceptible to cold for some time to come.

“We got the space,” Jazz replied. “You’ll have yer own room. It’s just been sittin’ empty.”

Waiting for a newling that may never come to be, it would be far better for the berthroom to be made proper use of. This sparkling had suffered horribly. Already Prowl was thinking about all the things he would need, and all the things he deserved. As he watched Smokescreen inch closer, moving with the wariness of an abused cyber-pup, Prowl did not dare ventilated. Ratchet paused from his work as Smokescreen came up beside him. The mechling made a low whine as he reached and touched a dent on Prowl’s doorwing. He pulled his servo back like he had been scalded and his plating clattered. Jazz crooned and drew him over to him. Prowl pushed off Jazz’s lap, a little regrettably, so Jazz could lifted the mechling into his arms.

“Prowl’s gonna be fine, Smokey. Ratchet’s almost done.”

“You said he wouldn’t hit you,” Smokescreen said, frowning. He reached to touch Prowl’s face. The new weld was shiny. It would fade as his self-repair systems integrated the repair. In a few mega-cycle it would be as if it had never been there.

“I miscalculated,” Prowl replied. He was not going to tell the mechling he had half goaded Sideways into it. “He was arrested for it, and for the stolen property found in the habsuite. While he is in awaiting trial, and provided he serves a detention sentence, Jazz and I are going to foster you.”

“I’m not going to the workhouse?”

“Is that what he told you would happen?” Prowl wished he could go back to the precinct and punch that mech again.

“He said if I didn’t earn my keep he’d turn me over to one.”

“No one’s turnin’ ya over to the workhouse,” Jazz stroked the mechling’s helm. He was so perfect, so sweet. Jazz was a natural procreator. Prowl brushed both whimsy and ache aside. “Yer gonna live wit us. We’ll get ya yer own berth, some toys for ya to play wit. I don’t suppose yer in school?”

“No. Genitor said I was too stupid for school.”

“Oh, Bitlet ya ain’t stupid. I can see that already. He had ya sellin’ all sort o’ slag for ‘m, didn’t he?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, after school’s back in session, we’ll get ya enrolled. Y’ll see yer plenty smart.”

“I’m really gonna have my own berth?”

“Of course,” Prowl said. He sat up straight as Ratchet returned to his repairs.

“I’ve never had a berth. I recharged on the floor,” Smokescreen replied. Jazz scowled over the mechling’s shoulder. If Jazz ever got the opportunity he would rend Sideways. Prowl would have to make sure he never got the chance. The law would not be kind to him.

“You will never recharge on the floor again,” Prowl promised. Smokescreen smiled at him. Ratchet set his tools down, and the moment he did, Smokescreen was climbing from Jazz’s lap and into Prowl’s. He wrapped his arms around Prowl’s neck and buried in face in his neck.

“When you told me to get off the fountain I thought you looked so scary,” Smokescreen said. “But when you picked me up I thought you were so warm, and I didn’t want you to put me down.”

“I am sorry that I did,” Prowl replied. “I am sorry I left you in the cold.”

“You really are warm,” Smokescreen sighed and he dropped his helm to Prowl’s chassis. His ventilations slowed. Prowl wrapped his arms around the sparkling. Jazz fussed with the warming blanket to ensure his doorwings were nicely covered.

“Recharge a lil longer, Smokey,” Jazz crooned. “Yer safe wit us.”

Prowl found himself with a lap full of contented, dozy sparkling and his spark fluttered. Jazz kissed his cheek, and adjusted the couch again so the back was folded up, ready to support Prowl’s back. Feeling tired, and so perfectly peaceful, Prowl leaned back into the cushions Jazz arranged behind him. As his own optics dimmed, Prowl felt Jazz draped a blanket over him and the sparkling. When Jazz moved away Prowl’s optics brightened and he reached for his sparkmate through their bond. He lowered the sensitivity of his doorwings so when Jazz joined him under the blanket and cuddled into his side, his doorwing was not perturbed by the pressure. Ratchet said his good-byes and Prowl drifted into recharge feeling a deeper warmth than he had ever felt.


	18. Law

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I don't think I'll catch up until I have more writing time over the weekend. But at last I didn't fall further behind.
> 
> Jazz ruminates on Smokescreen's arrival in their life.

Smokescreen was the best gift Jazz thought he could ever have received. It seemed like fate that Prowl had brought him home in the later joors of the Lunar New Year. He could not celebrate that Sideways had put his servos on Prowl. The fact that Prowl seemed more displeased with himself that upset someone had tried to kill him grated on Jazz a little, but he could forgive his sparkmate’s peculiarities. Though Jazz had seen early on, just about as soon as he had seriously interacted with Prowl, that there was a deep warmth to him, few others ever seemed to see it. His kin certainly did not. In fact they had outright refused to believe Prowl was anything but a cold-sparked brute before they had even met him. Their reactions had been why Prowl and Jazz had eloped. The fact that Smokescreen thought Prowl was warm, and wanted nothing more than cuddles from him was just spark warming and irresistibly sweet. Jazz never wanted to let him go.

White and blue flames burned hotter than red or orange and Jazz had seen more than merely intelligence behind Prowl’s pale optics, and he had desperately wanted a taste. Because he had been, and still was an entertainer, Jazz had always possessed the power to choose who he allowed the privilege of taking him to their berths. It had still been the most loathsome part of his job, but the credits he had been given, as well as the gifts, had often been greater than what he had earned on the stage. They had kept him shelter and fuelled. They had given him enough to support his procreators as they had struggled to move into legitimate business. There had been times, especially at the beginning, where there really had not been much of a choice.

Oh, he could have said no but then he would not received the gifts or the credits, so he had lain under and over more than one odious mechanism. The patron he had only dismissed once he had gotten serious with Prowl had been rather odious, but he had been generous with his favours. But then, so had Jazz. When he had seen Prowl first rebuke and then remove a brothel client who had been abusing one of the youngest buymecha, Jazz had been intrigued. When he had refused any interface as payment or reward for his assistance, Jazz had been captivated. When he had seen Prowl refuse every proposition, and every bribe, Jazz had wanted him. Badly. Above him, or under him, it hardly could have mattered less.

It had not been a surprise when Prowl had said no. Not even in the slightest. The rejection had been so perfectly polite too. Prowl had spoken to him as if he was an equal, and not merely one step up from a common whore. Of course that had only made Jazz fall deeper into lust for him, and from there he had pulled out every seductive trick, enough that the buymecha had taken notice and taken bets, but Prowl had politely refused, every time. Jazz had stopped for a time, not because he had wanted to but because he did not actually want to harass the mech. That he stopped trying to seduce Prowl had not meant that Jazz had stopped trying to find some way into his affections. He had spent quartexes studying him. In fact, Jazz had been studying him when he had suffered a sudden crash.

Jazz had been perfectly familiar with glitches, his origin had one after all, but the crash had been shocking. Punch’s glitch did not cause those. Energon had poured from a gash on Prowl’s helm where he had hit it on the bar. No one had known what to do, so Jazz had just... reacted. While Prowl had still been unconscious, he had put pressure on the wound. No one had dared comm EMS as no one had wanted to risk being stuck with the costs of a medic. Thankfully Prowl had come back online in only a couple of breams. The longest breams of Jazz’s life. Jazz had insisted on escorting him home, when he had been ordered home by the keeper. Prowl had demurred but when Jazz had told him he would follow him regardless what he thought, Prowl had acquiesed. Discovering Prowl had lived in a boarding house on the rough side had been surprising. He had always thought that enforcer were better paid. It had dawned on him that the bribes they took had probably had something to do with their prosperity. Prowl had never once taken a bribe in his presence, and Jazz had come to the conclusion that it was simply not in Prowl’s coding to do it.

Somehow it had come out that Prowl intended to weld the gash himself and Jazz had been horrified. Prowl’s admission that the crash was likely more due to lack of regular maintenance than any real trigger had struck Jazz dumb. He had never imagined this enforcer, or any enforcer would fear the medicentre, and the costs as he and his kin and caste did. The idea of Prowl standing at a mirror, in a single room shared with strangers, Jazz had not liked it at all. Instead of taking Prowl home, he had taken him to Ratchet. Most mechanisms would not have marked accompanying a mechanism to a full frame overhaul as their first date, but that’s what it had been. Ratchet had spent joors on Prowl, much of that time spent lecturing Prowl on proper frame maintenance. When it had all been done, Jazz had not escorted Prowl home to the Praxian’s boarding house, but to his own private habsuite. True, it had not been much more than a closet, but it had been his, just his. Jazz had taken Prowl to his berth, and tucked him in. Sweet, sincere Prowl had insisted he did not want to kicked Jazz out of his own berth, and had suggested they share it. Jazz had never been more attracted to a mech, but he had kept his servos to himself.

Prowl had been embarrassed the next light-cycle, when he had come online, cuddled up to Jazz’s chassis. It had been the Praxian who had closed the distance, him who had draped his arm over Prowl’s side. Something Jazz had come to learn quickly was Prowl was a cuddler. He was touched starved. Prowl had rushed to make himself civilized before his patrol started, avoiding contact and apologizing repeatedly. Foolishly, he had asked Jazz what he could do to thank him for his assistance, after Jazz had brushed off his apology for the tenth or twelfth time. Jazz had asked for a date. A real date. The flush on Prowl’s faceplates had been delightful, and endearing. He had been more convinced than ever that he wanted that mech in his berth, and not for just a quick romp. Just a date, Jazz had promised, and Prowl had relented, and gone off to his precinct. It would not have served Prowl well to see him on the arm on a courtesan, so Jazz had invited him back to his habsuite, after his shift, for a home cooked meal, and engex. The meal had intrigued Prowl more than the engex.

Jazz had made sure to polish himself nicely. He had meticulously gone through his record collect to pick just the right playlist, and he had cleaned. Primus’ had he cleaned. When Jazz had been simmering the curry, Prowl had returned looking dusty and embarrassed. That dear, beautiful mech had apologized for his appearance and Jazz had wanted grab him and to show him how little he cared about dust. Instead he had offered Prowl use of the washracks, and Prowl had accepted. Only Jazz’s solvent had been in the stall, of course, and when Prowl had come out of the washracks smelling like him Jazz had been insanely turned on. Thankfully he had held it together, if only barely. Dinner had been good, dessert even better because Prowl had cautiously unveiled it. The tart from Mirror’s Glaze had been a perfect match to the engex.

It might have been the engex that had given Jazz the gall to invite Prowl to stay the dark-cycle. Prowl had looked, forlorn, for just a nanoklik and he had rebuffed Jazz saying that even if he could have afforded it, he did not pay for anyone’s company. Rather than turn Jazz off that firm statement had only made Jazz want Prowl more than ever, and he had told Prowl that he was not looking to be paid. He was only hoping for the pleasure, and the company of the prettiest enforcer he had ever seen. Prowl’s flush had once again made him so hopelessly alluring. I am not, he had said. Jazz had leaned in, just a little, and purred that he was. That Jazz had been unable to keep his optics off of him from the moment he had first stepped into the brothel. Close enough that Jazz had almost been able to hear Prowl’s processor working, he had asked for a kiss, and he had gotten it.

A shy and sweet kiss and Jazz had immediately want another. To his eternal joy, he had gotten it. That first kiss had chased away Prowl’s inhibitions and he had parted his lipplates in search for something deeper. Jazz might have made love to him there, in the small kitchen, but Prowl had just been too sweet to use callously. Still, he had touched, and Prowl had let him touch. Their fans had been roaring when they had finally separated for a moments intake. Before he had poured more engex, Jazz had asked again if Prowl had wanted to spend the dark-cycle with him, and Prowl had shyly replied yes. Jazz had been utterly thrilled. As their interface drives had simmered, they had drunk another vial of engex. Because he never went into these things blind, Jazz had asked Prowl what he enjoyed. Prowl had confessed then to being woefully inexperienced but that had enjoyed both giving and receiving oral, and that he had enjoyed being spike.

Jazz could not deny that he had been especially hopeful for this outcome. Though some of his patrons had seen use for Jazz’s spike, like most courtesans he was generally expected to spread his legs and make pretty noises. To a degree it separate business and true pleasure. This thing with Prowl was entirely about please, and Jazz had been methodical about, rending Prowl a mindless, pleasure drunk puddle by the time the sun had begun to rise. He had been thrilled to find his estimation had been correct. There was so much passion and so much heat behind Prowl pale optics. His ecstatic cries, and sultry moans were the most perfect melody Jazz had ever heard. When he had been able to think again, around mid-cycle Prowl had thanked Jazz for a pleasurable dark-cycle, and Jazz had invited him to stay for another, and another. Prowl had never gone back to the boarding house except to collect a couple of possessions, and apart from those dark-cycles that Prowl had spent recharging at the precinct between shifts, Prowl had spent every dark-cycle there after in Jazz’s berth. Jazz wanted him to stay there forever. They had fallen in love in that little habsuite, bonding after only a stellar-cycle. Perhaps that was part of what had alarmed his procreators. He and Prowl had moved quickly, but they had both known that this was _right_. It was still right.

Prowl was exactly the sort of caretaker Jazz had imagined he would be. That empty room had quickly filled up with toys and trinkets. Jazz might have worried about their savings but he knew how Prowl shopped. The toys were from a charity job, same as the furniture. It was all new to Smokescreen, and the mechling espoused joyous thanks with ever little gift. He was a complete and utter delight. Even when he pushed back against teachers who demanded respect Smokescreen expected them to earn, Jazz was delighted by the mechling. As he had guessed in the beginning, Smokescreen was a clever little mech.

It was dangerous to fall in love with him, more dangerous than it had been to fall in love with Prowl. Smokescreen had a progenitor, a useless one, but he had one. Waiting for the wheels of justice to turn was torment. Jazz distracted himself from it by doting on the mechling who he was teaching to play the cyber-violin to the displeasure of their neighbours, and worshipping his sparkmate. With Smokescreen as an excuse, Prowl had finally begun to refuse excessive overtime. Smokescreen was an especially effective ally in this regard, all he had to do was express missing their cuddles and Prowl was putty. When they had a creation together, and Jazz truly believed it was a when and not an if, he knew that bitlet would have Prowl wrapped around his little digit.

“Two vorns,” Prowl declared after he returned from the precinct late one dark-cycle.

“That’s it?” Jazz asked, putting a plate of fuel down in front of Prowl. “For putting his servos around yer throat?”

“It is hard to kill a mechanism through strangulation. The justices declined to consider the attempted murder charge.”

“Scrap. I was hopin’ he wasn’t gonna get out ‘til Smokey was all grown up.”

“Considering he could not be bothered to provide for Smokescreen, perhaps he will be happy to forget he exists.”

“I don’t know how anyone could. But Primus do I hope he does.”

“We need to prepare for the event that Sideways does request Smokescreen be returned to his custody upon his release.”

“He don’t got the right to demand that. He didn’t care for Smokey. He almost killed him. He never once asked if Smokey was alright.”

“The law says he has the right. We need to be prepared to abide by it.”

“Frag the law.”


	19. Betrayal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Unfortunately the law is often not just.
> 
> Oh look. My fingers were really working today!
> 
> All caught up now.
> 
> This is update 2 of 2 for this evening so go back to Chapter 18 if you haven't read it.

It had proven to be one and a half vorns. The detention centres were over crowded and the justice system had more important things to concern themselves with than a sparkling abusing thief. Prowl’s spark did not stop racing as the mega-cycles then vorns past after Sideways’ release. They had been honest to Smokescreen, they had let him know that his progenitor was released. He had begged them to let him stay. Prowl had told Smokescreen that they would do whatever they could to keep him, but if the courts chose to return him to his progenitor, he was always welcome to come see them. In reality, Prowl had never really believed the courts would be so stupid. So he sat numbly in the courtroom as the justices ruled that Smokescreen be returned to his progenitor’s custody. He had turned over a new leaf in prison, or so the chaplain had said. His sponsors said he had committed himself to changing his life for the better. The merchant who had hired him, a mech designated Swindle, spoke highly of him. Prowl was certain he was lying through his denta but the justices believed him. And they were the ones with the power.

“I am so sorry,” Prowl said as Smokescreen clung to him, keening inconsolably. A clerk for the justices stood off to the side, waiting impatiently. He tapped his ped, and Prowl wanted to rip it off.

“I don’t wanna go! I wanna stay with you and Jazz. I don’t wanna go!”

“I am sorry.”

“Why are you letting them take me?” Smokescreen looked up at Prowl with an expression of betrayal. Jazz stroked his back. Mouth set in a hard line. Prowl knew he was asking the same question.

“It is the law,” Prowl replied. While it was the truth, it felt like a pitiful excuse. He pulled the warm cloak over Smokescreen’s doorwings. “We will send all your things to your new address. If you ever feel unsafe you can find me at the station. I will help you.”

The clerk snorted. Clearly displeased by his promise. Prowl levelled the mech with a look. They could not stop him from helping Smokescreen if Sideways continued his bad habits. As the clerk grabbed Smokescreen’s wrist the mechling keened and Jazz cursed. Desperately needing comfort as his spark was breaking, Prowl reached for Jazz but his mate brushed away his servo. When Smokescreen was all but dragged around the corner, Jazz turned away, and stalked off. Shocked, Prowl stood in the hallway for a klik. He looked down at his servo, the one Jazz had brushed off. That had never happened before. Spark in his throat, Prowl went after Jazz, and found him on the courthouse steps.

“Jazz!” Prowl said. “I know you are angry with me...”

“I ain’t angry wit ya,” Jazz said. A lie. Prowl could feel the anger through the bond and it leashed the warmth from Prowl’s frame. “Like ya said, the law is the law. I got a rehearsal.”

Jazz transformed and raced off down the street. Prowl watched him go, struck dumb by his abandonment. While it was true, Jazz had been working a gruelling schedule of practices and auditions for some as of yet unnamed sponsor, he had not mentioned having one after their scheduled court date. He had mentioned taking Smokescreen to Mirror’s in the mid-cycle. Prowl brushed the tears from his optics and transformed. Jazz did not have a regular rehearsal space, or studio and rented what spaces he could for his practices; Prowl could not go after him. So he went home. With optics all but blinded by tears, he packed up Smokescreen’s room into boxes and called a courier service. It was a living memory purge, and he wanted Jazz with him, needed him, but Jazz did not come. As the courier left with all of Smokescreen’s worldly possessions Prowl tried to comm his sparkmate, but Jazz did not answer. Dejected and sparkbroken, Prowl curled up on the floor of Smokescreen’s empty room. Though he hoped that at some point in the dark-cycle Jazz would come home, he did not.

Prowl paced about the market long after his third shift was over. He had take the market patrol in hopes of spotting Smokescreen, even just the briefest glance. Smokescreen had not appeared, and Prowl should have been more grateful. It was the eve of the Lunar New Year, and the weather was just as cold as it had been that mega-cycle he had met the sparkling. At least this stellar-cycle Smokescreen had a heavy cloak to keep him warm. As tears threatened to gather in his optics, Prowl fought for some self-control. He had intentionally taken the evening shift with the hopes of overtimes. Jazz had not been home in an orn with the excuse of practices and auditions but Prowl knew his sparkmate was avoiding him. He wished Jazz would just yell. Wished he would just curse so perhaps some of his anger would ebb. This avoidance, this denial was worse than any name calling could ever be.

The evenings were too quiet without Smokescreen, without Jazz. Prowl could not bare to sit alone in the kitchen with nothing but grief for company. It ate him alive. Recharging alone in the berth he and Jazz shared was unpalatable, and he found there was no point in trying. He could not recharge without Jazz. Prowl pulled his cloak a little more tightly around himself as he felt bitterly cold. Whether it was the bitter wind that sent snow falling sideways, or his spark causing this did not really matter. Logically, he should have turned for home, but home was empty and Prowl was not yet ready to face the silence. He had presents for Smokescreen tucked away in his subspace. If he could just catch a glimpse, just for a moment he might be able to give them to him. Sideways might have put on a convincing show for the justice, but Prowl knew it had been just that. The tears in his optics had been false. There had been no grief and no guilt to be found in them. If anything, Prowl thought he had been laughing at them all for being stupid enough to fall for his ruse.

“Prowl?” Someone called his designation, and he turned. Prowl flinched, more exaggerated than he would ever have wanted. He was just across from Jazz’s procreators’ shop. Punch was standing in the doorway. How did Prowl escape this? “Come inside. Yer shift’s over, ain’t it?”

“Yes,” Prowl replied. Lying would have been more sensible but he was not a convincing liar. The last thing Prowl wanted was to go into the shop and socialize with Jazz’s kin. They had been cordial of late, since Prowl had had no choice but to interact with them once Smokescreen had joined the household. Jazz had wanted the mechling to know his procreators and brother. They had become his grand-procreators and uncle.

“Come on, inside,” Punch cajoled him. “Ya need somethin’ warm in yer tank I think.”

“I would not want to trouble you,” Prowl said.

“No trouble. My mates are on a last klik repair call. Mirror’ll sent them away wit full fuel tanks, which leaves me wit more soup than I can eat myself. Inside. Come along.”

Like an obedient cyber-dog, Prowl went. He did not want to, and he could have said no, but he went lest he give Jazz another reason to be angry with him. Punch led him behind the counter, and nudged into onto a stool. Even as Prowl was sitting, Punch was stripping off his cloak and hanging it to dry over the heating vent. He clucked his glossa at Prowl, and shook his helm. Why was he doing this? Prowl did not want this but before he could speak up and make up some excuse to leave, Punch draped a warming blanket over his doorwings and shoulders, and Prowl jerked his helm up with surprise.

“Stay,” Punch ordered. “Ya need to warm up a lil, ya don’t want to lock up.”

“No...”

“There ya go. Hang tight, ‘n I’ll serve the soup.”

What in the Pit was going on? Prowl tried to guess what Punch was after. His battle computer came up with wilder and wilder ideas, but he was too dull and too dejected to focus on any one prospect. The blanket was warm and it did quickly banish the physical cold from Prowl’s frame, but inside he still felt frozen. His spark was frozen. Again, tears tried to well up in his optics and Prowl quickly brushed them away before Punch came around the corner carrying a dray with two steaming bowls of lead and chromium hydroxide soup. From the way Punch clucked his glossa, Prowl was certain he had seen, and Prowl hunched his shoulders.

“My creation can be an idiot.”

“Which one?” Prowl asked.

“Both, to be fair. In this case, Jazz.”

“Oh.”

“Oh? Whatcha doin’ Prowl? Jazz is actin’ like a fool. Why ain’t ya raggin’ on ‘m? He deserves a glossa lashin’.”

“He has a right to be mad.”

“He don’t have a right to take it out on ya. Ya don’t make the law. Ya enforce it, but ya didn’t write it. There’s nothin’ ya coulda done to keep Smokey wit ya. The justices ruled, ‘n better ya give the mechlin’ over peacefully than get yourselves locked up. He’s treatin’ ya like ya ain’t grievin’ too.”

“I...” Prowl desperately did not want to cry but the tears fell anyways. His whole frame shook, and Prowl struggled to bring himself back into line. But it was difficult, no it was impossible. It was all the more impossible when Punch started stroking his back and crooning softly to him.

“Don’t fight it, Prowl. Yer spark’s hurtin’ let it out.”

He really did not want to but Prowl’s will was weak and listless and he sobbed aloud. Punch continued stroking his back and crooning glyphs of comfort. Prowl did not understand why his originator in law was doing this, what he could hope to gain but he was helpless to resist; he so desperately needed the comfort. The only mechanism he had to lean on in life was Jazz, but Jazz had turned his back and Prowl had never felt quite this alone. In Praxus solitude had been familiar and habitual, the result of a processor defect and procreators who could only be described as aloof. But after joining with Jazz, Prowl had become familiar with companionship and he no longer remembered how to cope with isolation.

Eventually, his frame ran out of tears and Prowl sat slumped at the counter. Punch nudged the soup over to him and told him to eat. He ate, what else could he do? The soup was good. There was no denying that Jazz’s procreators were all marvelous cooks. Soups were Rumbler’s specialty. This was probably his work. Prowl had hardly stopped for a meal, stopping had meant thinking and feeling and he had been desperate to avoid either, and once the nourishing fuel hit his tank his systems demanded more. His originator in law chortled when Prowl looked down at the bowl and was startled to find it empty, and Punch immediately refilled his bowl.”

“Eat yer fill. After this ya outta go home ‘n get a bit o’ recharge. I expect to see ya at the feast.”

“But...”

“Ya ain’t workin’, since ya just finished a triple. ‘N yer most definitely not spendin’ the Lunar New Year alone in that habsuite.”

“Jazz will not want me...”

“That’s nonsense.”

“He is angry with me.”

“Dearlin’, he’s just angry, ‘n he’s takin’ it out on ya, ‘n that’s wrong. When he sees ya, he’s gonna feel like a scraplet, ‘n he deserves it.”

“I would not want to ruin anyone’s feast.”

“Ya won’t. ‘N he won’t. He knows better.”

“Surely everyone will enjoy it more without me.”

“‘M so sorry we’ve made ya feel like that. I thought we’d gotten past that.”

“That was for Smokescreen’s benefit.”

“For ya too. We all see how good ya are for Jazz. A little late. We thought. I thought ya were like those patrons, just usin’m up. But I was wrong. Ya lifted ‘m up, ‘n us. Don’t think I don’t know where the credits to buy this shop came from.”

“Oh...”

“Ya work yerself to death ‘cause ya don’t want’m to have patrons. I thought at first ya were just jealous. But no. Ya love’m too much to want to see ‘m used. So ya put all the weight on yer own shoulders. Ain’t ya tired o’ carryin’ it all? Do ya have no one ya can talk to? Yer procreators?”

“My procreators do not even know I am in Polihex. When I refused to bond to the mech I lost my seals to, they disowned me.”

“Ya didn’t love’m ‘m thinkin’.”

“He was my mentor. A friend of theirs. Had not been cooperative with the matchmakers so they thought if he just seduced me I would fall into line. I was stupid enough to be seduced. I was not stupid enough to bond.”

“Not stupid, Prowl. Young. That mech should have his servos cut off for takin’ advantage.”

“I was hardly a youngling anymore.”

“Don’t matter. He had authority over ya ‘n he used it.”

“Jazz said something along the same vein.”

“‘Cause he’s a smart mech. Usually. Go get some recharge, Prowl. ‘N we’ll see ya at the feast.”

“I suppose I can come.”

“Good.”


	20. Return

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jazz realizes how long he's been away from home and prepares to return. But he is not coming home alone. Thanks to his disreputable past, he has favours to call in.

Jazz made his way down the stairs. No one was up yet. He should not have been up yet, but Jazz had been unable to recharge for more than a few joors at a time. Every time he dimmed his optics he saw Sideways’ lying optics and heard Smokescreen’s wretched keens. The only thing that gave him relief was losing himself in his music. Since the waking memory-purge he had composed more songs than could normally manage in a quartex. How long had it been? An orn? Primus it felt so much longer. Operating a little bit on autopilot, Jazz pressed his energon. It would not chase off the grief but it would chase off some of his exhaustion.

“Ya know y’re always welcome but when are ya goin’ back home, Jazz?” His origin asked as he joined him in the kitchen. Jazz flinched. It was a rare thing for anyone to sneak up on him. But he was tired, and he was exhausted.

“I’ve overstayed my welcome, Ori?” Jazz asked.

“Never. But ‘m wonderin’ when yer gonna go back to yer sparkmate. Ya been rechargin’ here for an orn.”

“I know.”

“Don’t ya think ya outta talk to Prowl?”

“I can’t think of anythin’ to say.”

“Really?”

“All I can think ‘bout is how he just let Smokey go.”

“What do ya think he coulda done? They woulda taken that bitlet by force, and Primus only knows that would have been a cruel thing to do to Smokey.”

“I just don’t feel reasonable, Ori. It’s not like I wanna be mad at ‘m. He don’t deserve to have me screamin’ at ‘m.”

“Y’re right. He don’t. But do ya think ghostin’m is any better? Do ya think turnin’ off yer comm ‘n just icin’m out at a time like this ain’t just a stab to the spark? Love. Who does he have to turn to when he’s hurtin’ but ya? Who does he have when y’re the one hurtin’m?”

The glyphs sank in and Jazz’s fuel tank clenched. He knew the answer without having to think about it. Prowl had no one. No kin that would claim him, not friends amongst his enforcer colleagues... No one. Jazz ran his servo down his face. Really, he had not meant to stay away for an orn; he had only needed time to process, time to work on his mad but... But it had been an orn. Guilt added another layer of heaviness to his spark. The prospect of going home made him nausea. What could he say when walked in the door. What would Prowl say? Would Prowl even want to hear him? It was not so much that his anger finally ebbed so much as it was overwhelmed by guilt and fear.

“I gotta...” His comm crackled, and Jazz lost his train of thought. Turning from his origin, he lifted a servo to his helm. There was no one had the end of the link, but a message. He saw the sender and opened it without a nanolik’s hesitation. Within the message were coordinates. “I gotta head out.”

“Goin’ home?”

“Not yet.”

“Ya’d better show yerself at the feast this dark-cycle.”

“Of course. Wouldn’t miss it.”

Jazz did not miss the disapproving rumble his origin made, but he ignored it. He gulped the energon he had pressed and ran out the door. The coordinates Lockdown had sent him were plastered in the corner of his HUD. Still in the slums, still near the market, but enough off the beaten path that Sideways had probably felt safe from any surprise visits from a noisy enforcer. Knowing all he know, the bribe Swindle had paid to justices, the debts Sideways owed, Jazz was finally able to strike. Before he even turned the corner, he heard a familiar voice sobbing, and Jazz flared his plating as he took the corner to see Smokescreen standing on the porch, with no cloak as goons carried the berth he and Prowl had bought Smokescreen out the door, followed by the toy chest. Smokescreen reached for the box and Sideways backhanded him. He tossed the warm cloak Prowl had so carefully arranged over Smokescreen’s doorwings in the courthouse.

Seeing red, Jazz charged. He cursed, Prowl would hopefully forgive him for swearing around the mechling, with colour and full voice. The goons froze. Smokescreen’s sack of scrap progenitor froze. Freezing did not save Sideways from Jazz’s wrath. Gently, he brushed Smokescreen aside before he hit Sidesways in the belly, and then the chin. Jazz snarled viciously as the loathsome mech fell. Swindle’s goons put down their loads and raised their servos. These were only couriers, not debt collectors or debt enforcers. They were not paid enough to take on a snarling lunatic.

“Don’t any o’ ya move.” Jazz ordered, visor glowing white with anger. He turned to Smokescreen and knelt. Carefully, he examined the side of his helm to make sure Sideways had not done any damage. “Ya a’ight, Bitlet?”

“You came! Your really came!” The mechling wrapped his arms around Jazz’s neck and hugged with every thread of strength in his small frame. “I missed you so much!”

“I missed you too Smokey,” Jazz replied and he hugged the sparkling to him. The mechling, his mechling felt too cold, and it reminded Jazz of the dark-cycle Prowl had brought him home, frozen and still like death. Growling he reached out a servo and the goon holding Smokescreen’s cloak handed it over. Crooning, Jazz draped it over Smokescreen and lifted him up.

“We don’t want trouble,” the goon who had given over the cloak said.

“This stuff don’t belong to ‘m,” Jazz snarled. “It belongs to the mechlin’ ‘n it was purchased by me ‘n my sparkmate. So what yer gonna do, is yer gonna deliver it to my address. Unless Swindle wants to have a problem wit me.”

“We’ll have to check wit Swindle.”

“Ya can check wit ‘m. When ya do ask’m how he thinks he’ll do when an enforcer finds out he pawned his mechlin’s berth.”

“We’re licensed! We don’t want trouble with any enforcer.”

“Good. Here’s my address. Tell’m Jazz said hi. If ya don’t deliver Smokey’s things to my place by this evenin’, I’ll be comin’ for Swindle. He won’t like it if I do.”

The goons made a quick retreat. All the better so far as Jazz was concerned. He did not really want to put Smokescreen down but Jazz was not quite finished with Sideways. As mechanisms gathered on the stoops of their tenements, Jazz came to his senses. This was best done away from prying optics. Sideways groaned at his peds. Jazz lowered Smokescreen to the floor, grabbed Sideways by the kibble at his neck and dragged him into the building. Just as soon as the door closed, Sideways lashed out a servo, going for Jazz’s ankle, but the Polihexian neatly dodged the strike before bringing his ped down hard on Sideways’ wrist. He shrieked and Jazz heard a nasty crack, and immediately regretted his viciousness, but not for the slagtards sake.

“Sorry to do that in front o’ ya, Bitlet,” Jazz said. “Prowl won’t be too happy wit me.”

“He hurt Prowl.”

“He did.”

“I don’t care if you hurt him.”

Jazz lifted his ped and Sideways clutched his arm. For a moment, Jazz watched him writhe in pain. He remembered the dents, the shape of digit prints, on his sparkmate’s neck and wanted nothing more than to drive a blade into the slagsucker’s spark. But that was something Smokescreen did not need to see. If Sideways did not do as he demanded, then Jazz would revisit the issue. While Sideways made a production out of his pain, Jazz picked Smokescreen up again and nuzzle his mechling. This last orn had been a living Pit. Suffering it alone had been a poor choice, and one Jazz have to answer for when he went home, but for now he savoured the chance to hold Smokescreen. They would never be parted again. Sideways eventually realized he was being ignored and he cursed, and sat up. There was no question his wrist was broken. It really was not in Jazz to feel sorry.

“I’ll get you...”

“No ya won’t, ‘n if ya try I’ll make sure ya regret not bookin’ it outta town,” Jazz replied. He tossed a datapad to Sideways. “Yer gonna sign this.”

“What is it.”

“A legal document, signin’ away all rights to Smokescreen ‘n signin’m over to me ‘n my sparkmate.”

“You can’t make me.”

“Maybe I can’t. But that stuff wouldn’t o’ begun to pay off yer debt to Swindle for buyin’ the justices. It don’t even come close to touchin’ the 10k ya owe Lockdown.”

“How do you know about that?”

“I know a lot, about a lot. ‘N see, Lockdown owes me a favour. I kindly offered to let’m clear the slate. The deal is, yer debt’s come due, ‘n in full. Lockdown’ll be here in two joors to collect.”

“You’re bluffing! You’re just a cheap slut.”

“I was never cheap,” Jazz replied. “Go ahead, comm Lockdown. ‘M waitin’.”

“Bet you fragged ‘m,” Sideways hissed. He refused to sign.

“Ya know, y’re really testin’ my patience,” he place a servo to his comm. There was a brief silence. “Yer debt’s due in one joor.”

“You said two!”

“Ya pissed me off. Wanna make it a bream?” Jazz asked. “Ya put yer servos around my sparkmate’s neck. Ya left this mechlin’ to freeze in the snow. I really don’t care if ya live. In fact, I’d rather ya didn’t. But ‘m givin’ ya the chance to run. Ya have two nanokliks to make yer choice.”

He signed. Jazz left the rusted out tenement and carried Smokescreen down the steps. They were a comfortable walk from home, and Jazz more than happy to carry Smokescreen the entire way. Smokescreen held on tightly, pressing himself as close as he could to Jazz’s chassis. It would be perfect if they passed Prowl on his patrol, but there was no sign of Prowl. Did that mean he had actually taken the New Year off? From the corner of his optic Jazz saw a mech with spikes on his neck and a hook in place of a servo waiting in the shadows. Smiling the a Sharkticon, Jazz gave Lockdown only the barest of nods. Before Lockdown could finish Sideways off, Jazz and Prowl will have replaced his pitiful bond in Smokescreen’s spark. The mechling would not know his death. Neither would Prowl. It was easier that way. Lockdown never killed a mechanism with an outstanding debt, without exception he extracted payment first. How he got payment from Sideways was not at all Jazz’s concern.

“I’m really going home with you?” Smokescreen asked. “The justices won’t give me back to him.”

“As soon as I get ya home me ‘n Prowl are gonna sign the datapad ‘n ‘m gonna file it. One o’ the justices realized what a mistake he made. He’s gonna put the seal on our petition just as soon as I send it to ‘m.”

“Really?”

“Really, Bitlet. How do ya feel ‘bout havin’ me for your ‘geni?”

“Amazing!” Smokecreen wriggled with delight. “You’ll be Geni, ‘n Prowl’ll be Ori!”

“That’s right, sweetspark. I always thought ya were the best New Years gift I ever got. ‘M so glad Prowl brought ya home that dark-cycle.”

Jazz was oblivious to the hustle of the market, and wound his way down familiar streets. He never saw Prowl, and it was almost a pity. When Prowl saw Smokescreen again, he was going to light up like a star. They might end up being a little late to the feast, depending on how long it took the goons to turn up with Smokey’s stuff, but Ori would forgive them when they walked in with Smokescreen. Jazz did not let his processor linger on the what ifs. After leaving the shop so many things had come into his processor, so many glyphs that got tangled in his helm. Seeing Smokescreen would light Prowl up, but Jazz was not sure about how his sparkmate would respond to seeing him. He would not lash out when Smokescreen was there, but he might, later. Jazz could not pretend he did not deserve it. To hold and to cherish, he had spoken these vows, and he had failed them. Prowl had to forgive him; Jazz could not imagine spending the rest of his life without him.

“Here we are, Smokey! Home!” Jazz felt both anticipation, joy and dread in his spark. There was a measure of relief when his code worked on the door. He set Smokescreen down and the sparkling ran into the apartment. There was no sign of Prowl. “Maybe he’s in the berthroom.”

Smokescreen ran. He darted into the room down the hall calling for Prowl, but he came out, looking dejected. Was Prowl really not here? Had he really decided to work over the feast-cycle? Jazz found his spark breaking. Their mechling, because as soon as they signed the datapad Smokescreen would be legally theirs, forever, crossed the hallway and walked into his empty room. When he came out a few nanokliks later he was all wrapped up in a blanket. It was the blanket off Jazz and Prowl’s berth. Frowning, Jazz peaked into the room and saw a pillow. His sweet love. Prowl had been recharging on the floor of Smokescreen’s room. Jazz would have know. Would have been there to hold him if he had even once come home.

“He must o’ gone into the precinct,” Jazz said, keeping his tone bright. “‘M gonna call Grand-Ori Punch over. He’ll watch ya while I fetch Ori.”

“There aren’t any decorations.”

“Been hard to think o’ celebratin’ without ya, darling. Grand-Ori can help ya get things started... Maybe we outta have the feast here. We can celebrate ya joinin’ the family, permanently.”

“Oh! Oh yes!”

Jazz held a servo to his helm: “Ori?”

“I hope yer home wit yer sparkmate.”

“He ain’t here.”

“But I sent’m home after lunch. He’d already worked a triple.”

“Ya had lunch wit Prowl.”

“I invited ‘m outta the cold. Warmed ‘m up wit yer geni’s soup.”

“How was he?”

“Sparkbroken. He tried so hard not to cry, but he couldn’t keep it inside.”

“Thanks for takin’ care o’m.”

“He’s ‘sposed to be comin’ to the feast.”

“Knowin’ Flatfoot he’ll be workin’ til dawn. I need ya to come over. Smokey can’t stay ‘n the habsuite all alone.”

“Ya got my grand-bitty back?”

“For good. Do ya think Geni ‘n Genitor’ll mind bringin’ the feast over here? I thought it’d be nice to celebrate Smokey comin’ home.”

“We’ll take care o’ everythin’.”

Punch whooped for joy when Smokescreen jumped into his arms. The sparkling brightly explained how they were going to put all the decorations up. He still had the blanket wrapped around himself, it dragged along like a train. Smokescreen said it smelt like Prowl. Jazz thought it did as well. As he had been waiting for his ori to appear, he had dragged all the boxes containing their Lunar New Year decorations out into the living room. Before Smokescreen they had only ever had a small shrine up, but after he had come into their lives, they had gone a little overboard with stuff. Jazz loved every bit of it and he thought Prowl did too. His optics always lit up, his expression always became so dreamy when he watched Smokescreen rediscover his favourite decorations.

“Jazz is my Geni now ‘n Prowl is my Ori!”

“Oh sweetspark ‘m so glad.”

“‘M gonna get Prowl. It might take a bit. Some couriers are gonna come by wit Smokey’s stuff.

“That mech ain’t gonna turn up.”

“No. He ain’t ever comin’ back,” Jazz declared. His originator smiled, just a little viciously, and squeeze Smokescreen to him.

“How does it feel to be Geni?” Punch asked. There was a harmonic to the query. He had never told his procreators he and Prowl were trying to create. Prowl had been so self-conscious about his inability to kindle, and in any case, Jazz had not wanted to give his kin another reason to judge Prowl. But the harmonic had confirmed what Jazz had always suspected. His kins’ interpretation of his and Prowl’s relationship had always been flipped.

“Amazin’. I been waitin’ ‘n hopin’ for it for vorns.”

“‘N Prowl’s been waitin’ to be Ori.”

“Yeah.”

“Well, better get’m home so he can see his wishes have come true.”

Jazz did as he was told. He was angry. Not at Prowl any longer but at Flatfoot. That mech had forever been taking advantage of Prowl, forever abusing his commitment to his service, ‘n deriding the science Prowl had studied so carefully in Praxus. Enforcers in Staniz sneered at the science of metaforensics. If a criminal was not caught in the act, they considered the case unsolvable. They had a detective, a brilliant detective in their precinct and they assigned him to patrol. They never let him investigate. When he did manage to solve what they considered unsolvable, they called Prowl lucky. They did not value him. They used him. Jazz was tired of seeing him being used and abused.

He through open the precinct doors and walked passed the reception desk. Someone whistled. Jazz sashayed with an exaggerated swing of his hips. They catcalled, Jazz ignored them. Let them drool. They would lose their processors when they finally clued in that he was Prowl’s. In the far corner of the precinct Jazz saw Prowl sitting at his desk, with Flatfoot leaning over him. Jazz did not like seeing that mech so close to his mate, even if he had complete trust in Prowl’s fidelity. Flatfoot was crowding Prowl’s doorwings. It was utterly disrespectful and while Prowl may have been willing to suffer it, Jazz was not willing to see it happen.

“Ya ain’t ‘sposed to crowd ‘em like that,” Jazz said.

“What?” Flatfoot asked, frowning at the invader.

“Jazz!”

“His doorwings. It’s rude as Pit to crowd’em like that.”

“What are you doing here, Jazz?” Prowl asked.

“Ori told me ya had lunch wit’m after workin’ a triple. What the frag are ya doin’ back here?”

“The roster needs to be corrected...”

“Ain’t schedulin’ his job?” Jazz asked as he pointed at Flatfoot.

“Yes...”

“Then maybe he should get off his aft and do his job, since he ain’t payin’ ya to be lieutenant.”

“Jazz.”

“Ya told Ori ya’d be at the feast. Ya don’t wanna disappoint ‘m.”

“Jazz.”

“We’re goin’ home, Prowl. Come on.”

“You are making a scene.”

“I know,” Jazz glowered at Flatfoot as the chief glowered at him. “I don’t give a frag what these lazy, useless scraplets think o’ me.”

“Jazz, this is my _work_!” Prowl looked pleadingly at him. He looked so tired. His doorwings were canted low and his shoulders hunched away from his chief.

“Back away from Prowl, ya stupid aft,” Jazz hissed as he came around the desk. He waved Flatfoot off. The chief backed away. “Come on, Lover. Ya worked more than yer due.”

Prowl took the servo he offered as his coworkers jeered. If Jazz had his way this would be the last any of these afts saw of Prowl. His sparkmate averted his optics. He did not like being the source of entertainment for these mechanisms. Jazz would make it up to them. There was a part of Jazz that was tempted to pull Prowl close and to kiss his processor out, but he respected Prowl more than that. There would be better opportunities. Though Prowl willingly walked away from his desk, and out of the building, he stopped on the steps. It was probably better they clear the air before Prowl saw Smokescreen anyways.

“‘M sorry.”

“Are you?” Prowl asked.

“Yes, Prowler. I was so mad losin’ Smokey. I was so mad ya could except what we couldn’t change. It shoulda been me I was mad at. I projected everythin’ on ya. All I could think of was yellin’ ‘n screamin’ ‘n I didn’t wanna do that. I knew ya didn’t deserve it. But ‘m an idiot ‘n I didn’t really notice time passin’ til I realized it’d been an orn this light-cycle. I realize I hurt ya by ignorin’ ya. I got no worthy excuse. I was wrong. I shoulda been wit ya. I shoulda been holdin’ ya.”

“I was waiting to be served a divorce petition,” Prowl said, flatly.

“Oh, no, Lover. No! ‘M sorry I didn’t deal wit my mad faster. ‘M sorry. I love ya Prowl. I adore ya. I can’t imagine breaking our bond. It’s my greatest treasure. Y’re my greatest treasure.”

“I did not think you wanted me.”

“I did, I do, ‘m sorry.”

“Did your originator send you to collect me?”

“No! ‘M here for ya, ‘cause it’s my job as yer sparkmate to care for ya. I got my geni ‘n genitor settin’ up for the feast in our kitchen...”

“Why our kitchen?” Prowl asked, a little sharply. “It is always at their place. I like that. I like being able to leave if I have had enough.”

“Ya won’t wanna leave,” Jazz replied. He offered Prowl the datapad. “Sign this for me.”

“Why?”

“Because Smokey is so excited to have ya for his ori.”

“Smokescreen?”

“We sign it, ‘n a justice’ll make it official. I got Sideways to sign over custody o’ Smokey to us.”

“How?”

The question came with a hydraulic hiss as Prowl’s processor began to redirect coolant from his limbs to his helm. Jazz kissed Prowl’s, his nose, his chin. When Prowl raised his servo it was not to shove Jazz away but to bring him closer, they kissed. It may have started tenderly but Jazz ravished Prowl, and Prowl was willing to be ravished. The precinct steps really were the wrong place to be doing this. Still Jazz kissed Prowl a little longer. He kissed away the pain and the grief he had caused, and he celebrated their reunion. But they had kin and creation waiting. They would make love later, if not this dark-cycle then another.

“Can we pick up Smokescreen now?” Prowl asked when they finally separated.

“He’s already home. Ori’s watchin’m ‘n gettin’ started on the decorating. Ya recharged on the floor in Smokey’s room.”

“I am sorry. I should have hidden it better. I had started thinking you would never come home.”

“Hush. I shoulda been there to hold ya. Smokey’s wearing the blanket like it’s a cape ‘cause it smells like ya. Come home wit me Prowl. Our creation is waitin’ for ya.”


	21. Found Family

Smokescreen was waiting at home for them. It did not seem real. Jazz linked their arms and guided Prowl down the steps. Behind the door, behind Prowl’s back, he knew his colleagues would be cackling at his expense, and Flatfoot would be fuming. He could not be angry, even if perhaps he should have been. When Prowl returned to work the in two mega-cycles, they were going to make his life a living Pit. Flatfoot would most certainly have it out for him for daring to go. Prowl leaving would mean that Flatfoot would have to stay. The Praefectus had left early every evening this orn, much of the administrative work had backed up with his lack of oversight and effort. Knowing what remained to be done, Prowl thought Flatwood would miss the Gala. There was no question, Prowl would have Pit to pay for Jazz’s outburst. But he could not be angry.

“Do ya think ya can do somethin’ for me, Prowl?” Jazz asked as they wove their way through the market, arm in arm, hip to hip.

“What do you need?” Prowl asked. His fuel tank did a flip. Love suffused him. It filled his spark and blanketed his frame. Jazz told him without glyphs he had nothing to fear from him. Prowl’s spark gave a little fluttered. It was tender; he was a little wounded. But he believed what Jazz was telling him. He believed his sparkmate loved him.

“Will ya consider quittin’?”

“Jazz, we need my job.”

“Not right now. I was offered a vorn’s residency at the Figment Ampitheatre, ‘n I got a signin’ bonus to sweeten the deal. Ya don’t need to put up wit abuse like that any more.”

“Jazz...”

“Has he ever touched ya?”

“No! Jazz, no!”

“Do he usually crowd in so close ya can feel his systems humming in yer doorwings.”

“Yes.”

“He knew it wasn’t kosher.”

“Yes. He is not stupid, Jazz. He knows if he hovers long enough, I will acquiese just to get rid of the sensory feedback.”

“Oh Prowl. My love. Ya never told me.”

“You would not have tolerated it.”

“No slag! I stopped takin’ patron’s cause ya didn’t like me bein’ used. Ya think I want that for ya? Prowl, ya deserve so much better than this.”

“What would you have me do?” Prowl asked. “I need to do something.”

“Ya need to be a detective. It’s what ya always were. Ya weren’t meant to do the patrol beat orn on end. It’s not what ya trained ‘n ya studied for.”

“They do not have metaforensics in Polihex.”

“I know. I don’t know why Flatfoot don’t want ya to teach the others. I can’t understand why he don’t respect ya as he should. Lover, ya can serve the community without bein’ abused ‘n demeaned.”

“How? I have no interest in being a guard or a hired gun.”

“Be a detective. Scraps always goin’ missin’ round here. Sparklings ‘n younglings run off. Mechanisms scam each other. No one goes to the enforcers cause the enforcers don’t care. Ya care. I know ya care so much.”

“I cannot just open an office and declare myself a detective.”

“Sure ya can. Call yerself a... private investigator.”

“That sounds ludicrous.”

“Hey, it’s not the craziest thing I’ve suggested.”

“No. That would be suggesting we bond the second dark-cycle we spent together.”

“Worked out pretty well.”

“It has. Jazz, there’s no guarantee anyone will hire me. If I quit the enforcers they will not rehire me if this scheme fails.”

“We’ll cross that road if we have to. Right now, Prowl, ya need a rest. Flatfoot’s used ya up ‘n spat ya out just to use ya again. I need ya to live, if not forever, than for as close to it as possible. Ya won’t if ya let’em burn ya up.”

“I love you, Jazz.”

“I love ya, ‘n adore ya, Prowl. ‘M sorry I had ya doubtin’. ‘M sorry I let ya down. Ya carried us. Ya carried my procreators, on yer back for vorns. Let me carry the load for a bit. ‘M strong ‘nough to take it.”

“If I quit without notice, I will forever burn that bridge.”

“By all means, nuke the damn bridge.”

Prowl could almost still feel the frequency of Flatfoot’s spark vibrations on his doorwings. As they walked home, he stretched out his doorwings, unconcerned with the snow. He could ventilate without feeling smothered. As crazed as it was, Prowl wanted to quit here and now. Even knowing there could be no coming back from it, not even decavorns from now, he wanted to be free of Flatfoot and the mockery of his fellow enforcers. It remained a scary prospect, not only quitting but putting all his faith into Jazz’s career. Talented as his sparkmate was, Prowl feared he would take patrons instead of admitting he could not pay all their bills. That was something he could not bear. His displeasure at Jazz keeping patrons was not only that he loathed to see Jazz used so disrespectfully, but because he was loathe to share.

“If there is trouble with a bill, promise me you will tell me.”

“We’ll keep the shared account, Lover. Ya never thought o’ yer earnings as yer credits. Ya always called them ours. I don’t feel any differently.”

“I wrote a resignation letter two vorns ago. Of course I did not send it.”

“Send it, Prowl. Room the fragger’s festival-cycle.”

“This may be poor karma.”

“That mech deserves all the bad karma this’ll reap ‘m. By Primus, he’ll have to do his own job instead of sluffin’ it off on to ya.”

“You really want me to quit.”

“Yes, Prowl. Burn the damn bridge.”

Prowl sent the letter. Anxiety choked him but Prowl leaned on Jazz. His sparkmate’s embrace was both pacifying, and strengthening. Jazz kiss his mouth, his neck and the little dip of protoform just above his chassis armour. It had been a struggle and a juggle for the vorn and a half they had served as Smokescreen’s foster creators. Flatfoot had still harassed Prowl to take last klik shifts while had been busy putting his mechling to berth. Though Prowl had worked less, comparatively speaking, he joors had been long and Prowl had not been home as frequently or for as long as Jazz or he had wanted. With that thought, Prowl smiled. No one would call him away from the meching... their mechling now. He would not let Smokescreen down again by not being at a game or in the audience.

His spark was in his throat when they arrived at their address. Prowl looked up the steps, not quite believing that their dreams were really coming true. They had bonded so quickly because both had been keen to share a creation. All Prowl had wanted for vorns was to give Jazz a newling. But if his spark was cool and empty than adopting Smokescreen, a mechlings who already owned their whole sparks, was a worthy enough prize. Jazz took his servo and gave it a squeeze, and they ran up the steps into their building, and all the way up to their door.

“Ori! Prowl!” Smokescreen screamed and he barrelled into Prowl and clung to his legs. “You’re home.”

“Smokescreen,” Prowl sighed and sank to his knees. In the next instant Smokescreen was in his arms and Prowl was holding and rocking him, whispering his designation over and over.”

“You’re my ori now, right? Jazz is my geni, he said so.”

“Until the end of time,” Prowl promised. Jazz?”

“Whatcha need, Lover?” Jazz asked.

Prowl reached his servo to him and caught him. The chortled Jazz made as Prowl tugged him down was sweet. Feeling Jazz’s arms around him even as Prowl hugged Smokescreen was perfect. Eventually, they remembered their company and separated, though Prowl felt some regret. Smokescreen to him by the servo and showed off all the decorations he and Punch had put up. Just around the corner, in the kitchen, Prowl heard Jazz’s progenitors laughing. Punch hung backc on the couch. He was smiling. Prowl smiled and he kissed Smokescreen’s helm.

“Ya know, Prowl, yer glowin’.”

Glowing. Prowl understood the suggestion. He looked to Jazz who looked to him. Looking for something. It had been over a vorn since Prowl had last checked himself for a spark. Smokescreen gad been an excellent distraction from that spark break. Rumbler called Smokescreen over to lick the spoon and Jazz took Prowl’s servo in both of his and guided him to their berthroom. The scanner had been sitting in its drawer for so long it had gathered a layer of dust. Jazz brushed it clean. Prowl’s servos were shaking when Jazz offered him the scanner. Jazz’s servos were shaking too. Facing the mirror, Prowl bared his spark, and ran the scanner over himself. After a moment it beeped, once. Numb, Prowl stared at his own reflection, and scanned a second time. Once again there was only one beep. Jazz slammed their mouths together. Prowl loosely held the scanner as he crossed his arms low on Jazz’s back and kissed Jazz with all he was. They had too separate eventually, they had Smokescreen to consider. Jazz took the scanner from Prowl’s servos and looked it over.

“Woo!” Jazz cheered. “We finally did it, Babe. Finally.”

“Ori? Geni?” Smokescreen called out to them, audibly concerned.

“It’s a’ight, bitlet,” Punch reassured him. He smiled we unapologetic glee when his creation and Prowl came back to the living room. “Looks like yer gonna be a big brother, Smoky!”


	22. Tear 'n Chase

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Lord of Law has unorthodox methods for gathering evidence in his hunt for a serial killer.

As Lord of Law, Prowl did not often attend crime scenes anymore. Some cycles he missed the endless hunt that was metaforensics, perhaps even most cycles. He was not a politician, at least not an adept one, but the course of his career had not been his to choose alone. There had been the matter of the family, and the will of his grand-originator. Windbreaker had set his optics on putting one of his grand-creations in the Lord of Law’s office, that grand-creation had proven to be Prowl. It might have been Cousin Barricade but he had proven to be a disappointment, at least in Windbreaker’s glyphs. Prowl had no opinion, he and his cousin had been pitted against each other from the moment they had emerged on the same mega-cycle, Prowl’s means to secede from the old feud his procreators had invested so much time in, was to ignore that it, and the family as a whole existed. Windbreaker might have gotten his wish, Prowl might be Lord of Law, but his grand-originator had reaped no rewards.

He was at this crime scene, on this dreary dark-cycle in the late imber, observing an all too familiar scene. There was a serial killer stalking Petrex. It was hardly a first in their history, but Prowl considered the hunt to be a personal one. Though no one else was convinced of it, Prowl was certain that this was the same killer he had stalked in his first stellar-cycles as a detective. Everything had been the same, both the victim type, and the ritualistic nature of the murders and the way the victims had been arranged, never mind lack of CNA or paint transfers. Back then, Prowl had not been the lead investigator, but a novice. The lead investigator, along with the Praefectus of the time had called the case unsolvable. Every detective had been in the same position, waiting for the next victim to turn up, and hoping that this time the unsub would have made a mistake. It never happened though. After twelve killings the deaths had just stopped.

The killings had begun again, one hundred and forty-four vorns later. Though Prowl had put Petrex’s best detectives onto the case, they were suffering the same frustration he had all those vorns ago. He was standing at the scene of the eleventh murder, his jaw set as he stared at this latest victim. Prowl did not want to wait for a twelfth. He had not wanted their to be a twelfth. At the seen of the tenth murder Nightbeat had found traces of a chemical compound their labs could not identify. In secret Prowl had given a sample of the compound to a... he really did not know what to call Jazz. A consultant? No, that glyph sounded to clean, and far too professional to describe Jazz. But for this he did not want professionalism. Professionals clung to much to the rigid rules that governed insular Praxus. His labs could not ask counterparts in other states for answers. He could not ask. But through Jazz, Prowl hoped to find an answer, and perhaps the clue that would break this decavorns long case open. This might be their only hope to prevent a third victim and their killer disappearing for another one hundred and forty-four vorns.

“Be sure to check for the compound,” Prowl ordered when Nightbeat joined him.

“The labs couldn’t identify it.”

“That does not mean it does not hold the answer.”

“We identified the victim,” Nightbeat revealed.

“Another Righteous Courtesan?” Prowl asked.

“Yes, Sir. Like all the others. Designated Flash Bang.”

“The media will be titillated. Seeker or Seekerkin?”

“Seeker.”

The frametypes varied, but the function was always the same. Praxus was an insular state. There were only so many functions a foreign frame could hold. Many doors were closed to those who came from Praxus from elsewhere, or for those who emerged from a union between a Praxian and a foreign frame who emerged with the misfortune of not having doorwings. Righteous Courtesans were a caste of entertainers who both performed on stage but also in the berths of Praxus’ elite. Doors that were otherwise closed to those who did not share the Praxian frame, opened to them. Each of the Righteous Slayer’s victims had belonged to this caste.

Prowl loathed the moniker the media had given this killer. There was nothing righteous about murder. Considering his unsub targeted none but this frametype, Prowl had no doubt that he took issue with the function. More than that, he was certain the killed was Praxian. Others would have disagreed, and had. Praxians had difficulty imagining a psychopathic killer could have emerged to their peaceful and prosperous society. Killers came from all walks of life, and bore any frametype. Praxus was insular, and it was xenophobic. Many within their society recoiled at the sight of Seekers, and Urayans and Kalisites and the like on the arms of senators and ambassadors. Matchmakers took special issue with the caste. Given that bondings within traditional Praxian society were arranged by the matchmakers, any suggestion that they could have mismatched a pair was the gravest of insults. They considered the couplings of the elite with these courtesans to be a mockery of their profession. There profession was the single reason Prowl remained unbonded. No one was going to dictate to him who joined to his spark, and laid with him in his berth.

He had come to the conclusion, or perhaps the theory would have been a better choice of glyphs, that the killer was a matchmaker, but of course, Prowl could not prove it, neither could he prove who it was. Twelve victims symbolized the Twelfth Prime who had turned the paradise that Cybertron had been into the fractured and flawed world it remained by chasing his own desires and pleasures. Prowl was not a religious mech, despite coming from a family thick with priests, but he knew the Covenant as well as he knew the Code. These murders had religious fanatic written all over them. Skids, an investigator from his own office had infiltrated the secret world of the matchmakers. Hopefully he found something. Hopefully Jazz’s connection could give him something.

Coordinates not two blocks away popped into the forefront of Prowl’s processor as Jazz sent him a message through their two way comm. No one questioned him when he took his leave. As Lord of Law, he was not an investigator, though he had directed this investigation with a personal touch that was very much outside of the norm. His predecessors had all had matters on which they had put their personal touch, usually legislation they pushed to the senators, Prowl put his energy into criminal cases. They should not have expected anything else from him, he had not been an advocate, he had been an enforcer. Solving crimes, and convicting monsters was where his passions lay.

Prowl drove to the coordinates, it only took seconds. Just as he came to the coordinates a sleek speedster raced past, well over Petrex’s speed limits. He gave chase. His spark was already racing, and his circuits already burning with anticipation. As he gave chase, Prowl kept his sirens silent, though his coding would have had them wailing, and he kept his comms silent. The speedster led him into the warehouse district, full of towering square buildings, storage yards, and dark alleys. His prey turned on a shanix, Prowl turned not quite as quickly. He was bulkier, both in his alt mode and his root mode. They were similar builds, Prowl knew from experience. Jazz was shorter, his armour configuration similar, but the metal plating he wore was thinner. He had designed his armour for speed, Prowl’s had been designed to endure.

He turned the corner and found himself facing a high wall, with no sign of Jazz. Prowl transformed, his plating tingling and his systems running hot. Jazz had many talents, but disappearing was not one of them. There was no question Jazz had gone down this road, as he walked a little deeper, Prowl rolled his doorwings front and back, and up and down, searching for his quarry. Knowing Jazz, Prowl ran his servos along the wall, searching for a hidden door. Finding none, he reached a little higher, searching. Nothing. Doorwings flaring, Prowl turned to the side to check if perhaps there was something hidden on the other wall. As his servos reached up something collided with him before his doorwings could evening “see” to warn him. His servos were pinned above his helm. A familiar engine revved again his back making head coil low in his belly. It always happened this way. He gave chase, but Jazz caught him. Prowl could not deny that he preferred it this way.

“Now what’s the Lord o’ Law doin’ hangin’ out in dark alleys?” Jazz asked as he nipped Prowl’s collar. The Polihexian, as the mech identified himself, had an oral fixation. He never left Prowl without little dents to cover up.

“Looking for you, obviously,” Prowl replied, and Jazz chortled. Testing Jazz, Prowl pushed off from the wall, or he tried. Jazz released his servos and caught him by collar and doorwing and pushed Prowl’s chassis against the wall.

“Ain’t I just the luckiest mech,” Jazz purred. “Package comin’ yer way. The compounds a rare incense used but cultist worshipping the Prime of Lies.”

“That fits,” Prowl thought aloud. The glyphs turned into a moan when pulled his doorwing back and ran his glossa over the smooth edge. “Frag.”

“I’d be happy to,” Jazz replied and Prowl turned his helm to glower over his shoulder at the mech, molesting was too accusatory a glyph, fondling might have been more accurate, his doorwing. “Show me yer valve. I know yer drippin’.”

Prowl pulled his cover back, and felt the rush of lubricants as the spilled down his thighs. Before he realized Jazz was rifling through _his_ subspace, Prowl felt the snap of stasis cuffs over his wrists. His stasis cuffs. It did not alarm him. Every enforcer could unlock their own cuffs through a glyphless command. More to prove a point than to reassure himself, Prowl gave the command. The cuffs stayed in place. Heat surged through his circuits and his valve clenched on nothing. How did Jazz re-key them so quickly? How did he come up from behind Prowl without his doorwings seeing? Jazz was a mystery in so many ways. Still, knowing so little as he did, Prowl did not resist as Jazz nudged his peds apart and pulled him back to bend at the waist though his chassis and helm remained pressed up to the wall. He only moaned low when Jazz pushed two digits passed the plush rim of his valve, and up two knuckles deep inside of Prowl.

The sudden penetration was smooth. Prowl had grown sinfully wet over the course of the chase. Though the intent was always for him to catch Jazz, it had never happened. Jazz always caught him. With his servos cuffed behind his back, Prowl could not cover his mouth to silence his moans and cries as Jazz roughly digit-fragged him. To save some of his dignity, Prowl muted his vocalizer. As Jazz twisted his digits deep inside of Prowl, the only sound Prowl made was a high whine from his fans. It was more than enough. He barely registered the loss of stimulation when Jazz withdrew his digits. But he did register the sudden stretch as something considerably broader than a pair of digits buried itself inside of him. A cry of shocked pleasure broke from his mouth as his vocalizer clicked back on. His valve clamped down on Jazz’s spike as forced his valve segments to quickly make way. There was a bite to the stretch, one Prowl adored and he could not keep his vocalizer off as Jazz set a quick pace.

Fragged against a wall in a dirty alley, the Lord of Law moaned, and like a seasoned buymech, begged for more. Jazz pulled Prowl’s helm back from the wall by his chevron and nipped at his neck. The pinch on that kibble had Prowl overloading with a sharp cry. As his valve rippled tightly over Jazz, the Polihexian only increased the force and the speed of his thrusts. Keeping his hold on Prowl’s chevron, Jazz groaned in his audio and gruffly purred his filthy praise. He never stopped telling Prowl how wet he was, how tight he was, what a good frag he was, and Prowl moaned deliriously. Jazz pulled Prowl’s aft back to his array with wet clangs of metal on metal. They echoed through the alley. Prowl’s optics shorted and his mouth fell open.

“Where do ya want it, Prowler?” Jazz growled as he released Prowl’s hips in favour of pulling the Praxian back by his doorwings. The rough treatment had Prowl’s procressor ringing with over stimulation. Over the buzzing of his systems, and the obscene clangs as Jazz slammed into his aft, Prowl barely heard the question. He groaned. “Where do ya want it? On yer back, on yer face or in this sloppy valve I’m fraggin’?”

“Unh!” Prowl grunted as Jazz groaned the tip of his spike against his cervical node. He was so close to another overload. There was no question where he wanted Jazz to come. “In me! Jazz, I am so close!”

“Yeah, I know ya are,” Jazz replied. “Ya squeezin’ me so hard. Just wanna milk me o’ my transfluids. Pretty, proper Lord o’ Law. ‘M gonna make ya cum so hard while I frag ya against a wall.”

Jazz bit Prowl’s doorwing, and held him firmly between his fanged denta as he fragged with quick, sharp jerks of his hips, hammering Prowl’s cervical node. There was no stopping the scream that rose from Prowl’s throat and spilled out as he overloaded. His legs buckled and Jazz pushed him hard against to wall, keeping him upright as he released his transfluids deep in Prowl’s valve. He released Prowl’s doorwing as a finally trickle of transfluids shot from his spike, and licked the wound. Moaning, Prowl shuddered, and his valve quivered. Eventually, Prowl found his peds, and only then did Jazz pull his discharged spike from within him. As the spike pulled free a splatter of lubricants and transfluids fells from Prowl’s valve and hit the pavement. Prowl quickly locked his cover back into place. Jazz unlocked the cuffs and Prowl slowly turned around, his vents flared and vans whirling as his frame tried to cool itself. It was gratifying to see that Jazz was similarly affected. He twirled the cuffs and gave Prowl a lecherous and mischievous smile.

“How long do I have ya for?”

“Three mega-cycles.”


	23. Hate Sex

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It turns out I suck at hate sex and this is more a bit of rough sex.
> 
> And then just porn.
> 
> So there you go.

Prowl forwarded the report Jazz had given him to the lab. They would run their own tests, and confirm the report. The fact that the original report had come out of nowhere would be buried in further tests, and further reports. It would not be traced back to him, not in vorns. Jazz was the creation of one of the Righteous Killer’s early victims. His originator had been a Righteous Courtesan at the centre of a scandal within the upper echelon of Praxian society. Counterpunch had been the regular companion of Ambassador Crosscut. When he had emerged a mechling with double jointed doorwings his claim that Crosscut had sired the bitlet had gained credence.

Though Crosscut had denied paternity, no one had actually believed him. He had paid a considerable some to be the exclusive patron to Counterpunch. Crosscut had made no comment and expressed no grief when Counterpunch had been found dead, the third victim of the newly discovered serial killer. He did nothing to support the orphaned mechling either. To say Jazz had some baggage related to his Praxian heritage was an understatement. He only revealed his doorwings when he went on stage. Where his originator had be a Righteous Courtesan, Jazz was not. Though he was an entertainer. Those doorwings he had emerged with allowed him entry into all doors open to his caste, but he snubbed them all.

He performed at alternative theatres for the most part, the same theatres where his originator had gotten his start. Though Counterpunch had eventually been able to perform at some of the grandest theatres, but the greatest, the Helix Theatre, had refused him, as they had refused and still refused to showcase foreign talents. Jazz only performed at theatres that had welcomed his originator. Despite many generous offers from the directors of the Helix Theatre, Maestro Jazz had refused them every time. Considering the mech held long and complicated judges, Prowl thought the Helix Theatre would be better served giving up, but they would do what they did. He thought Jazz enjoyed snubbing them. Perhaps he would be disappointed when they eventually gave up, or perhaps he would feel satisfaction. He was unlikely to express either to Prowl. They were not in a relationship. This was something different.

It had started by accident. Or at least it had been an accident on Prowl’s part. He had gone to see Jazz as the Silverlight Theatre after the killer had returned only to have the door slammed in his face. Prowl had eventually been able to convince Jazz to speak to him, largely by annoying him with his constant presence at his door, and Prowl had asked his questions. Somehow Jazz had gotten Prowl to tell him of his theories, and Jazz had lost his hostility. Mostly. There had been nothing new Jazz could add, no memory of his originator or his circle that might give some clue. Though Prowl had considered Crosscut to be a suspect, the Ambassador had been serving a tour on Caminus during the killings, as he was now.

Meeting with Jazz had ultimately been a waste of time. The ten dark-cycles Prowl had lingered outside his dressing room door could have been better served all but anywhere else. They would not have met again if not for Prowl asking Jazz if Counterpunch had been involved with cultists. Jazz had been outraged. Praxians endlessly referred to the religions of other frametypes as cults, and Jazz had been singularly unimpressed by Prowl’s question. Unimpressed enough to back Prowl up to the door as he laid into Prowl. It should have been intimidating, or at least worrisome but instead Prowl had become distinctly aware of his array. With Jazz in his face, Prowl had exclaimed he thought the murderer of Counterpunch had been the work of a cultist and these new murders shared the same pattern. He did not know or care if the victims practised alternative religions, he only wanted to find the unsub and he was going to ask uncomfortable questions, and he was going to nose about the most private facets of the victims’ lives to find what he needed. There was nothing too sacred for him to pry into, and he was not going to be sorry.

Jazz had growled up at him and then pulled his face down to kiss him. Prowl had gasped with shock, his processor had started to lock up but the nips to his lower lip and the glossa twisting around his had been enough to cause his systems to abort an emergency shutdown. There had been no backing away, but Prowl could have pushed Jazz away. He had not, not even when Jazz had pinned his doorwings to the door with flat palms against the panels. Though Prowl had cried out with shock as magnetic pulses had radiated from those black palms and assaulted his sensory grid. His legs had gone weak as the stimulation had gone on and one. Prowl had caught himself grinding his valve against Jazz leg as the other mech had pushed it between Prowl’s thighs to keep him upright but he had been unable to regain his decorum, and he had been unwilling to ask Jazz to back off.

Instead he had begged for more. Only after he had overloaded with a startled shriek had Jazz removed his servos. Legs like gel, Prowl had stood bow legged, braced against the wall, with lubricants staining his thighs, and forming a puddle at his peds. It had been outrageous, absolutely outrageous, Prowl should have felt something, outrage or shame but when Jazz had pulled back his own cover and pressurized his spike, Prowl had fallen at his peds and waited for permission as oral lubricants had gathered in his mouth. It had taken considerable effort not to drool. His interface drive had been roaring, and his frame steaming. Jazz had taken Prowl’s helm with both servos and guided him to his spike.

“No one would believe it if I showed ‘m a picture of ya like this, valve dripping, just ‘bout drooling for my spike. Ya gonna suck me, Hotcop? Ya gonna let me frag yer throat ‘n fill yer fuel tank wit my transfluids?”

He had sucked. Jazz had prominent nodes and sharp ridges going down his spike. Prowl’s valve had clenched hard at the sight of them. It had been such a delicious looking spike that Prowl could not even bother trying to maintain a little dignity, and he had taken it into his mouth, and sucked the crown of his spike, lathing his digit by the big, blue node set just back from the tip. Jazz had stroked his helm and neck, moaning luxuriantly. At Jazz’s urging Prowl had swallowed more, and the more of Jazz’s spike, sucking and licking as he had rocked his helm back and forth, quickly driving the performer’s charge into the stratosphere. For a moment Jazz had held Prowl’s helm still, with his spike filling the Praxian’s mouth. Oral lubricants dripped from Prowl’s chin. It was hedonistic and entirely improper.

“Ya look real good wit my spike in yer mouth,” Jazz had panted. “‘M gonna stick it down yer throat, unless ya got objections?”

Prowl had moaned, and his optics had dimmed. He had moaned again as Jazz had grabbed his chevron in both servos and had dragged him forward, burying his spike in Prowl throat. Tubing not meant to be stretched so quickly or so wide had been given no choice but to give way. As his optics had teared, experience had seen Prowl utilizing his secondary intakes as he had swallowed around the length filling his intake, and moaning the entire time. Jazz’s had not been the first spike he had sucked. Prowl had known well what he had liked, and he had loved the dual pleasure of his chevron being squeezed, and his throat roughly fragged. Jazz had growled that Prowl was too good a spike sucker to be an enforcer, and that he was better than a pro. The denigrating praise had sent Prowl’s charge rocketing high and he had reached his servos between his legs.

“Yeah. Yeah. Open yerself for me. Y’re real tight, ain’t ya? Ya fell on my spike so fast it must’ve been a while. Won’t be tight when ‘m done.”

The promise had seen Prowl groaning high around the spike in his throat. Jazz’s spike had twitched between his lips, signalling his impending overload. Chasing that release, Jazz had released Prowl chevron to take his helm in both servos and to pull Prowl roughly do him as he growled almost viciously. Prowl had rubbed his anterior node faster and had moaned louder around the spike gagging him again and again. His olfactory ridge had smashed against Jazz’s smooth protoform over and over until Jazz had held him there, groaning as he had overloaded down Prowl’s throat. With the spike still filling this throat, Prowl had not had any choice but to swallow, though swallow was exactly what he had wanted to do.

“Ya got hot lil mouth,” Jazz had purred as he had pulled his spike from Prowl’s mouth. He had not bothered to tuck it away. He had stroked Prowl’s bruised lower lip. “‘N a tight throat. Never thought an enforcer could suck a spike so well.”

“Lord of Law,” Prowl had corrected, his voice raw from the vigorously face frag.

“Now what’s the Lord o’ Law doin’ investigatin’ the murder o’ some uppity buymecha?”

“Is that how you remember your originator?”

“No. But that’s how Praxus remembers ‘m. ‘N all o’em. They blame every one for goin’ wit the fragger who killed them. If they’d been respectable, they wouldn’t’ve been makin’ their livin’ wit their valves ‘n spikes. They wouldn’t’ve been walking halls they didn’t belong in. I remember yer face. Ya were on that case, back then. Can ya tell me they put half as much effort into solvin’ the murders as they did the theft o’ Senator Backfire’s statuette?”

“No.”

“Hmm,” Jazz visor had flashed as he had hummed. “Wouldn’t’ve thought ya’d admit it.”

“They decided it was unsolvable.”

“What do you think?”

“Nothing is unsolvable.”

“There’s arrogance there,” Jazz had said, running his thumb over Prowl’s lower lip. “I don’t usually find it so attractive on a Praxian. The problem ya got, Lord o’ Law is that Praxus thinks it knows all, ‘n is all, ‘n ya ain’t. So ya think this is a cultist, but what do ya know of cults? Ya don’t got any experts here, that’s for fraggin’ sure.”

“Protocols do not allow our labs to request aid from foreign labs.”

“I know. That would mean admittin’ ya ain’t the best ‘n the world. I want that fragger caught. I want’m snivelling in the courtroom when they sentence ‘m to death. I want to be there to watch’m die. Ya got three more murdered ‘n violated mech in yer morgue. Maybe I can help ya expand yer resources.”

“How?”

“Prime was my patron when I was in Iacon. I met a lot o’ great minds Praxus wouldn’t ever acknowledge. Got scrap ya can’t answer? I’ll forwarded it to someone who can. ‘N maybe we can catch this fragger before he disappears again.”

“It would be against protocols.”

“What do you care more about, Lord of Law? Protocols or catchin’ a serial killer.”

“Catching a killer. Any killer.”

“Clever mech. I like yer conviction. We’ll install two way comes into our helms. We can pass slag back and forth ‘n no one will know yer breaking protocols.”

“How do I present the evidence, if you find me any?”

“Slip it in between reports. Easy enough to duplicate the results once ya know the parametres.”

“You know a great deal about metaforensics.”

“I thought I wanted to be an enforcer, to catch mechanisms like the monster that killed my origin. But I figured out quick I don’t like playin’ by any rules but my own.”

“That exclaims why you prefer the independent theatres. You can arrange your shows as you like.”

“That’s exactly right,” Jazz had looked down at Prowl, where he remained on his knees, his servo still pressed up against his valve thought he had stopped stroking himself when the conversation had taken a serious turn. “I still wanna frag ya.”

“Please.”

“Hmm, how should I do ya, Lord o’ Law?” Jazz had asked as he had begun stroking his spike back to full pressure. “On yer servos ‘n knees? Over the couch?”

“The couch?” Prowl had thought his knees were scuffed enough to attract undesirable questioning.

“Just like an audition,” Jazz had chortled, a little darkly.

“That really does happen?”

“Oh sure. Usually to the young. Usually to foreign frames ‘cause if they dare complain they’re easy to silence.”

“You have your doorwings folded.”

“I only have’em out for shows, ‘cause they want a Praxian on stage. But I don’t see myself as Praxian, Lord o’ Law. I see myself as Polihexian, like my origin. Like the uncle that raised me after he was murdered.”

“Why did you comeback, give your rightfully hostile feelings to our culture?”

“A whim. I got invited to be the resident act, ‘n I turned it into a tour. When ‘m sick o’ Praxus, I can move on. I got nothin’ holdin’ me here. I been in Praxus, ‘n I been in the scary world outside the walls. Praxus ain’t any better. It ain’t any safer. It ain’t a paradise.”

“I see.”

“Get on the couch, ‘n spread yer legs unless ya changed yer mind.”

Prowl had done as he had been instructed, because he had most definitely not changed his mind. Jazz had stared hungrily at Prowl’s glistening array, as soon as he had spread them wide. More aroused that he had ever been, Prowl had watched Jazz’s face as he had brought his servo to his glowing anterior node, rubbing it in slow circles as lubricants made a messy trail down his aft. He had not needed to see himself to know what Jazz had been staring at. His valve rim had been engorged with energon and glistening with lubricants, and his early work had left him just ever so slightly open. As Jazz had watched, Prowl had pressed two digits up inside him and he had moaned with genuine arousal. Squeezing around his own digits, Prowl had quickly added a third.

“Spread yer rim, lemme see inside ya,” Jazz had ordered, reminding Prowl where he had been, reminding him that he had been putting on a show, and the tremble of arousal had seen his doorwings hike up against the back of the couch. He had done what he had been asked. With two digits, he had spread his rim wide, and he had canted his hips for good measure so Jazz could get the best view. “Yer achin’ for it, ain’t ya?”

“Yes,” Prowl had replied. There had been no rational reason to demure. He had come this far and he wanted to be fragged.

“Stay like that,” Jazz had ordered.

Jazz had stepped up to the couch, and had knelt between Prowl’s legs. Prowl had whimpered a moan, as Jazz had knelt but it had turned into a sharp cry when Jazz had suddenly pressed his digits inside of him, spreading him quickly while coating his own digits in Prowl’s slick. As Prowl had stared down, Jazz had put his digits in his mouth and licked Prowl’s lubricants from them. Gasping as his frame had felt just too hot, Prowl’s jaw had dropped open as he had collapsed back against the couch. Jazz had grinned like a pneumalion before diving in and burying his face between Prowl’s spread rim. Shrieking was the only way to describe the sounds Prowl had made. Jazz had fragged him with his glossa, had sucked his node, and had render Prowl into wanton goo. He had not stopped sucking and licking until Prowl’s vocalizations had turned high and desperate. As Jazz and stood up between Prowl’s legs, the Praxian had taken a moment to grab a few greedy gasp of air. Then Jazz had grabbed Prowl’s legs from under the knee, and had pushed them back to his full chassis before burying himself to the hilt inside Prowl with one firm stroke.

“Oh! Frag!” Prowl had choked on a moan as his internal sensors had bombarded him with pleasurable feedback. He had held on to Jazz’s shoulders, positioned as he had been, there had been little else for him to do.

“Frag, ya know how work that valve,” Jazz had groaned into his audio. “Ya squeezing me like a vice. I could go off right now. Ya want it hard, Lord o’ Law?”

“Prowl,” he had moaned, wanting to be called his designation.

“It suits ya. Tell me, Prowler. Ya want it hard? Ya want it fast?”

“Hard and fast!”

“Good.”

Jazz had bit his lowered lip, just once, before rearing back to drive back into him. Prowl had held on to the back the couch with one servo while he had brought the other servo to his mouth in hopes silencing the litany of pleas and screams from his vocalizer as Jazz had immediately set a hard, driving pace. If any of his bandmates or dancers had been dear by, if any roadie had been walking by, they would have heard. They might have. Gruffly purring, or had it been growling, Jazz had snatched Prowl’s servos and had held them above his helm. Though it had been obvious that Jazz had wanted to hear him, Prowl had been too embarrassed, and he had tried to control his vocalizer. B

Somehow that rough, angry, interface had sealed their agreement. As Prowl had been coming down from his processor blowing overload, Jazz had been working on their private commlink. There was no question that interfacing for cooperation was against any number of regulations. Interfacing with an informant as absolutely misconduct but as Prowl had waited for his struts to re-solidify he had concluded that they had both gotten something from the interface. It had not been his intention to make this a habit, but when Jazz had alerted Prowl that he had had intelligence to drop, Prowl had gone to the coordinates, only to be let on a high speed chase. Why the chase had made his valve drip, Prowl still did not want to think to strongly about, regardless it had ended in a park where Jazz had sneaked up on him, and thoroughly fragged his processor out. It had become a game, a ritual. Now Prowl rewarded Jazz for his assistance with his company, and his frame. This violated so many regulations, and so much good sense but Prowl looked forward to each chase. He enjoyed getting caught.

Jazz let Prowl a few blocks over to a warehouse he was utilizing as a bolt hole. Of course he had a proper habsuite, and Prowl did as well, but they never visited each other had home. They gave no outward sign that they were familiar with each other at all. They certainly did not make it known that they were fragging. It might not have been a terrible scandal for Jazz, but it would have been a smear on his designation. The media would compare him, and not in flattering ways, with his originator. And Prowl? If he had kin who would claim him and a job that would pay him he would be fortunate. He did not worry overmuch of being discovered; they were careful. To be absolutely safe, Prowl recharged his implant every quartex. Worse than being caught fragging Jazz would be being discovered sparked up by him. It would have been reason enough to stop this affair, but Prowl exulted in it. He would be carefully, that would be enough.

“Engex, Prowler?” Jazz asked as he led Prowl into his latest nest.

It was almost a romantic setting. Pretty crystals glowed, casting the alcove in a gentle light. A berthside table with engex and vials waiting sat next to a low berth with a thick foam pad. There was a pile of pillows covering the head of the berth, from the headboard, there was a loop and a chain. Even fresh from a vigorous interface, Prowl’s valve clenched and the fluids sitting heavy inside of him washed against his node. He almost moaned. Almost. The reality of this evolving game was Prowl could leave at any time, and he could refuse at any time. Jazz was not his master, and he was not a slave. But the game gave them a, perhaps bizarre, excuse to carrying on this most ruinous affair. What they did when and if they arrested the perpetrator, Prowl did not know. Perhaps come up with some new excuse to frag like mechanimals in heat.

“Please.”

Jazz poured two vials, and handed one to Prowl. Given he had nowhere to be for three mega-cycles, Prowl turned off his fuel moderation chip, and sipped the engex, free to enjoy the warm buzz it gave him. It was an indulgence he rarely allowed, and come to think of it, it was one he only allowed himself when he was in some secret bolt hole. He was safe to let go here. That knowledge was the most heady of highs. As Prowl sipped, Jazz arranged a plate of fuels and sat it between them. Prowl cocked his helm at it. Rust sticks, energon goodies and gels. He asked himself, when had he last fuelled? When he came to his conclusion, Prowl thought better of telling Jazz the answer.

“I know ya probably ain’t fuelled for a while,” Jazz declared. “These have a bit o’ a hit. Wouldn’t want ya droppin’ off on me too quick.”

“I do not know how you always manage to sneak up on me,” Prowl said, and he took a rust stick. There was a burst of energy with the burst of flavour as he bit down. He needed to find where Jazz had gotten these. They would be a good thing to tuck into his drawer when worked through his breaks. Which was always.

“Trade secret,” Jazz replied. He ran a servo down Prowl’s back the low magnet pulses aiding him as he massaged the kinds from Prowl back. “I think ya want me to catch ya, though. Yer always so wet for me.”

“I still like the chase.”

“So do I.”

Prowl managed to eat three of the sweets and drink two vials of engex before Jazz’s gentle massage stirred up his circuits to the point that he thought he might go a little mad. Jazz rumbled his engine against Prowl’s back, there was no question that the provocation had been entirely intentional. Not that he minded. The moment Prowl put the vial and plate aside, Jazz’s servos were roaming freely over his frame, and Jazz’s mouth was on his neck. Prowl sighed as Jazz nipped and sucked, leaving him marked and wanting more. Jazz caressed his bumper, and scraped his headlights with pointed digits. This was tender. While Prowl enjoy rough interface a great deal, he enjoyed tenderness too. The low rumble of Jazz’s engine at his back, his servos on his chassis, his mouth on his neck, it all raised Prowl’s charge. He pushed back against Jazz’s chassis, and ground his aft against Jazz’s lap.

“Minx,” Jazz hummed, and he dragged his servos down Prowl’s belly. “Show me what sort ‘o mess we made.”

Jazz’s digits were inside of Prowl as soon as he pulled his cover back. The sound of those digits pushing passed the transfluids and lubricants was filthy. Prowl moaned, as much from that filthy sound as the stimulation from Jazz stroking nodes hidden within his valve. He was depraved, or his kin would have told him he was depraved, but there was so much more pleasure in this than there was in soulless propriety. As they had time to linger, Jazz teased Prowl’s spike to pressurization. With digits covered in a mixture of their fluids, Jazz stroked Prowl’s spike at the same time as he slowly fingered his valve.

“Such a sloppy valve,” Jazz purred in his audio. Prowl clenched down around Jazz’s digits at the observation. Jazz’s voice was purr sin, and Prowl found it hypnotic. Still, he flushed a little when Jazz spoke again. “I wonder how sloppy I can make it. I can feel how wet yer gettin’ again. The way yet grindin’ against my lap, y’re beggin’ to be fragged again.”

“Yes,” Prowl moaned.

“Next time ‘m gonna bring a mirror. Make sure ya don’t ever look away while ‘m fraggin’ ya.”

“Jazz!”

“I know ya love watchin’ my spike sinkin’ into yer greedy valve, wanton thing that ya are.”

“Frag. Jazz.!”

“Gotta tell me exactly what ya want Prowler,” Jazz purred as he leisure stroked Prowl’s valve and slowly played with his valve. “Tell me how bad ya need it. Tell me how much ya want my spike in yer sloppy valve.”

“Jazz,” Prowl hissed. The gentle, teasing touch was maddening. “Frag me like you mean it.”

“But I do mean it,” Jazz said. “I could sit here all dark-cycle makin’ ya writhe. Y’re delicious when yer desperate. Ain’t my digits enough for you?”

“No! I need your spike!”

“Where do ya need it?”

“My valve!”

“Yer what?”

“You are such a damnable tease! I want your spike in my sloppy valve. I want you to ruin me.”

“As ya wish.”

Jazz pushed Prowl up for just a moment, pressurizing in instant, before he pulled Prowl back down, right onto his spike. Prowl shuddered and moaned. The penetration was smooth, and easy. His valve remained lacks from their earlier interface, and the combinations of their fluids remaining within him, plus the fresh rush of lubricants oozing from the pores of his valve lining, there was no friction at all. That did not mean there was no pleasure, on the contrary, Prowl saw stars. From this angle, when he took Jazz fully into him, that big node at the tip of his spike stroked his cervical node, as it was doing right now. Prowl tried to get his peds under him properly so he could rise up fully before he sank back down. As he tried to sort out a rhythm, fragging himself on Jazz’s spike, Jazz nudge him him forward. The mech had a think for Prowl’s aft. Jazz grabbed a pillow and leaned back on the berth. With his doorwings to the ceiling Jazz could not see Jazz’s face but he was certain the mech was staring at his aft, his servos were certainly roaming all over it.

As he fondled Prowl’s aft, Jazz rolled his hips each time Prowl bottomed out, really grinding that node against the one so deep within Prowl. When Prowl covered his mouth to cover up his needy, desperate sounds, Jazz wrenched first that arm, and then the other behind Prowl’s back, and he held him by the wrists as he fragged up into him with greater forced and speed. Punching the moans out of Prowl, despite his best efforts to quiet himself at all. That was one thing Jazz had never done. He had never put a gag in Prowl’s mouth, he want to hear every single sound Prowl made, including the ones he found embarrassing. Using Prowl’s arms, Jazz pulled Prowl straight back again, as he knocked his peds apart. Positioned this way, Prowl could only grind himself against Jazz’s array, and flex his valve. That was enough for both of them. Unable to escape the stimulation from that node Prowl overloaded with a little cry. Jazz did not stop. He continued rocking up into Prowl, through the spasms of his valve, striking that node over and over until Prowl shrieked. Prowl shrieked when Jazz’s spike erupted against that node, the transfluids scalding his hypersensitive cervical node, triggering a third overload in such quick succession. As soon as Jazz’s spike slipped from inside him with a sinful splatter of fluids, Prowl fell back against Jazz, spent.

“So lazy,” Jazz teased. His servos were lightly roaming over Prowl’s chassis and belly as Prowl lay sprawled over him.

“Mm,” Prowl grumbled a little. He was pleasantly strutless, pleasantly tingly.

“If ya wanna get up, ‘m thinkin’ a lil more fuel’s in order. Then we’ll see I can’t ruin ya yet.”

Ruination was the incentive that saw Prowl sitting up, and sliding off Jazz’s lap and onto the berth. He had made a terrible mess of Jazz’s lap but when Jazz sat up and saw it he only grinned. For all Jazz liked to call Prowl’s valve sloppy and messy that was precisely the way he liked it best, but most importantly, he wanted to be the one to make it that way. They were not exclusive. This was a relationship, not a game but Prowl knew Jazz would send him on his way if he turned up with another mech’s transfluids in his valve. If Jazz was fragging someone else, Prowl did not need to know about it. He would most definitely not be open to inviting them to one of their dark-cycles.

Jazz did not reach for the tray of goodies right away. Instead he pulled Prowl up to the top of the berth, and urged him to relax against the pillows. It was nice, even decadent. Prowl only had one pillow on his berth at home; he had issues purchasing luxuries. He sagged back into the pillows, letting his doorwings droop with contentment. Sometime, Prowl hoped Jazz would show him his doorwings, and let him show him the pleasure they could bring to an interface, but he respected the mechs limits, as he wanted his own limits respected. Jazz crawled up his frame and kissed him sweetly. Sweet was not often the direction their kisses took and Prowl was distracted enough that Jazz got the cuffs on him again. He grumbled, more at himself than at Jazz. The next kiss was still sweet. It continued as Jazz pulled Prowl’s servos above his helm and attached them to the chain.

“I thought the plan was to fuel?” Prowl asked when Jazz slipped away.

“It is,” Jazz said, and he came back with the tray. He held a small goodie to Prowl’s lips. Prowl ate it.

This was different. A new twist to their game. Jazz enjoyed restraining Prowl, and having him completely at his mercy. Sometimes it was ropes, or even mesh strips, but when he managed to get them, Jazz preferred to use Prowl’s own cuffs to anything else. This proclivity had never really trouble Prowl before, in fact he had been reassured that he could get them off if need be. Jazz had disabused him of this notion now, but instead of feeling vulnerable or wary, Prowl felt all the more aroused. He was entirely at Jazz’s mercy, and that was a place he very much enjoyed being. In some ways, Prowl felt safer during these joors with Jazz than he did alone in his own company. While he had no respect for his frame’s limitations, Jazz held him to them.

“Ya look gorgeous when yer spread out like a feast for my pleasure,” Jazz purred, and he placed another treat into Prowl’s mouth. “I might not let ya off the berth before the chronometer runs out.”

“I hope you were not expected me to protest,” Prowl replied.

“No. I bet ya’d like it,” Jazz hummed with the thought. “Bein’ at my mercy turns ya on. Yer heatin’ up again already.”

“Having me at your mercy turns you on,” Prowl countered.

“Do it ever,” Jazz agreed. He picked up an energon goodie and smeared it over Prowl’s bumper. It felt cool and sticky. “Y’re absolutely delicious.”

Jazz ducked his helm and licked the sweet confection off of Prowl’s bumper. Prowl gave a startled gasp. As soon as Jazz was done with the first treat, he selected another. He painted Prowl with sticky treats and syrups, and then licked him clean. With the gooey gels he true glyphs on Prowl’s doorwings and then lapped them off. Prowl could not cover his mouth to stop the moans and cries as Jazz ate the sweets from his frame. The steam coming off Prowl’s frame helped to melt the energon goodies letting the confections ooze between layer of plating. He watched Jazz make a trail of treats down his belly. Anticipation set Prowl on fire, and he writhed under Jazz’s glossa. Even when he tried to hold himself still, he could not. Jazz covered Prowl’s spike in sweet syrup and twirled his glossa around it. When it was clean, he coated it again, and sucked it again. As he sucked Prowl’s spike clean a second time, as Prowl writhed fitfully under him, Jazz pressed a syrup filled goodie against Prowl’s anterior node and squeeze the filling over Prowl’s valve.

Prowl overloaded down Jazz’s throat, and Jazz paused to savour the mixture of tastes and Prowl dropped his helm back as his vocalizer felt hoarse from all his shrieks and scream. He could not even try to hold them back down, Jazz coaxed them out of him with each lick and suck as he left no part of Prowl’s frame untouched. When he covered Prowl’s valve with ever more melting treats, Prowl lost his higher functions. He bucked his hips into Jazz’s mouth as he licked him out, spreading him with his digits, drinking down not just the goodies but every trace drop of the transfluids he had spilled, and the lubricants Prowl had reached. The force of the overloads Prowl experienced as Jazz feasted on him had him keening with such force and volume that his vocalizer clicked off, and would not reset. Jazz sucked his anterior node one finally time and that was all it took to throw Prowl offline.


	24. Undercover

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Vorns of work come to ahead. But joy is tempered by a new horror.

Just as Jazz had suggested he might, he did not allow Prowl from the berth for the whole three mega-cycles they had to play. He had not kept Prowl cuffed, or otherwise restrained. Within the boundaries of their game, had Prowl wished to get up, he could have at any time, but Jazz had made it his mission this round to keep Prowl strutless and indolent for the duration of the fun, and he had done his job well. Their definitions of ruination had certainly been different. To Jazz it had meant overloading Prowl until he could not so much as think for breams, to Jazz it had meant being fragged so thoroughly that he could not sit down. It was perhaps for the best that Jazz had been holding the reins, or Prowl would be in some trouble right now. He still felt languid as he returned to his office after three mega-cycles of relaxation and pleasure. There was no lingering pain from their activities, though Prowl’s valve felt just a little tender, reminded him that he had been well and thoroughly fragged for three mega-cycles. Odd how that tenderness just made him want more. Hopefully they would have reason to meet before too long.

“Good light-cycle, Sir, did you have a good ornend?” His administrative assistant, Flash, asked.

“Yes, thank you. You?”

It was a customary exchange. Flash was young and still sowing more than a few wild oats. He never told Prowl too much of the mayhem he got into. So long as he turned up at the beginning of his work orn, and left the mayhem in his private life, Prowl did not care if he got overcharged with his friends at the track. Prowl would have been quite the hypocrite if he had sneered at his employees hobbies, his would have been considerably more damning if anyone was to discover what he was doing with Jazz. Though Jazz did qualify for citizenship due to his doorwings, the fact that he was an entertainer, the fact that he was the progeny of a Righteous Courtesan, all meant Prowl would have no end of Pit to pay if they were uncovered. They would not be uncovered.

“Are you expecting any calls?” Flash asked.

“If Skids comms I want you to transfer the link to me immediately. I do not care what I am doing, or who I am meeting with.”

“Understood. Would you like me to brew you some energon?”

“No thank you, I will see to it myself.”

Try as he might, and it spoke well of the young mech that he still tried, Flash could not brew Prowl’s energon nearly strong enough. Prowl knew it was vile looking sludge to most mechanisms, and he was even willing to agree that it tasted rather awful but there surge of quick energy it gave him cleared the fog from his processor, and helped he him going, regardless how much or how little recharge he had managed. There was not much fog this light-cycle. He had spent the dark-cycle with Jazz, though their together had had already been up. But Prowl had felt so content and so languid he had fallen into recharge as Jazz had repaired all the little dents and dings he had left on Prowl, and though he had roused when Jazz dragged the blankets up over him, and climbed into the berth himself, Prowl had been unable to think of any good reason to move. When dawn had come they had even managed one finally quick frag with Jazz draped over Prowl’s prone frame. His transfluids were trapped behind Prowl’s panel. There had been to get home and flush himself out. There had only been time to clean up the fresh paint transfers, and Prowl had driven straight to his office in the Hall of Justice. He probably should not have been so pleased by the thought.

With a hot mug of energon in his servo, Prowl sat at his desk, and turned on his workstation to face the seemingly endless paperwork. Paperwork was the central figure of his function. While it was something he was efficient at, it was not necessarily something he enjoyed. That had more to do with his loathing for the state others returned their reports in than any particular distaste for studying reports in general. It was his duty to decide which cases the enforcers put together were presented for trial in front of the justices. When he had first been enshrined as Lord of Law, his critics had suggested a mere enforcer would not know which cases were most defendable, not like an advocate could. Prowl was pleased to have proven them wrong. The conviction rate his office had garnered had silenced his critics, and had guaranteed he keep the office. Prowl might not have been much of a politician, or much of a soothtalker, he knew how to read a case, and he knew how to argue for it, and against it. He was good at the job, at least this part of it, the most important part of it. His comm chimed and Prowl recognized the ID as Flash’s.

“Yes?”

“Skids is here to see you.”

“Send him in.”

Prowl had picked Skids straight out of the UI division of Petrex’s central enforcer precinct. As an undercover operative he had been singularly effective within his department, and that might have been reason enough to leave him there, but Prowl had wanted investigators within his own office, to assist or to oversee enforcer investigations, and he had wanted the best. The blue and silver investigator walked into Prowl’s office. One of the traits Skids possessed that made him seem like an unlikely undercover operative was his energetic field. Skids was excited, Prowl could feel it in his own field before Skids had even crossed the threshold. The mech was like a cyber-cat, he liked the hunt, and he liked showing off his catch.

“I think I have him,” Skids declared before Prowl could ask for his report.

“What do you have?” Prowl asked, his spark flared. His plating tingled.

“I asked one of the apprentice matchmakers about incense. He suggested I asked Master Ephemeris. His collection of obscure incense is well known. He also warned me that Ephemeris is an odd mech. He’s the favourite matchmaker of the priest caste.”

“I am familiar. Much of my family belong to that caste. My procreators attempted to enlist his service in selected a Conjunx Endura for me.”

“What happened?”

“I offended him. He deemed me unmatchable within a bream. I was disappointed it even took that long.”

“Apparently he’s been lecturing the apprentices about the loss of purity with Praxian culture, and the duty of the elite to set an example for the masses.”

“He sounds someone unhinged. But that will not be enough to make a case against him.”

“He doesn’t have alibis for any of the dark-cycles. After the eleventh victim was found he lit into one of the other matchmakers when he expressed sympathy for Flash Bang. Ephemeris screeched that he deserved his fate. They all did. A couple of the apprentices were joking later that they wouldn’t be surprised if he turned out to be the psycho.”

“If Nightbeat can trace the purchase of orpiment to him, we could get a warrant.”

“I’m going to go back, to maintain my cover, and see if I can’t find out anything else.”

“Stay out of his personal quarters. Do not do anything that could be used by an advocate to get the case tossed.”

“Yes, sir.”

By ornend, Prowl was standing in front of a one way mirror, watching Nightbeat interrogate  Ephemeris.  Once they had gotten the matchmaker’s designation, the case had fallen together had a processor-spinning speed. As Nightbeat spoke to the matchmaker, Prowl knew enforcers were searching Ephemeris’ habsuite. If they could find the murder weapon, they would have this mech. They would have him at last. Ephemeris was on edge. He vilified the Righteous Courtesans for their function. He called them an insult to his holy calling. The way he talked, you would have thought that matchmakers were members of the priesthood, they were not. This was the killer, Prowl was certain of it. Prowl watched as the mech spat lubricants as he spoke, like a rabid mechanimal. 

“Sir!” Enforcer Darkstar called to Prowl as he ran up, holding an evidence bag in his servos. “I think we found it. There are traces of fluoroantimonic acid on the knife.”

“Bring it to the lab immediately,” Prowl order. Be careful handling it.”

“Yes, sir!”

They had him. Prowl took great pleasure watching Nightbeat present a photo of the knife and the vial of acid the enforcers had discovered under his berth. Under his berth, but a ludicrous place to hide a murder weapon. More than that, they had uncovered the identity of his intended twelve victim, and trophies taken from his previous victims. Ephemeris crumbled quickly. Crumbled might not have been accurate, because the psychopath did not crumble so much as just drop all pretenses and unleash his vitriol on his interrogator. He was mad, there was no question about that, but he was sane enough to be taken to trial if an advocate did not convince him to take a plea.  Mercy might have been considered the highest of virtues, but Prowl did not feel virtuous. It would take some remarkable offer to convince him to except any plea that did not involve the murderer of twenty-three victims accepted a speedy death.

Prowl blared his sirens as he raced for the Silverlight theatre. Jazz’s show would be over in a bream, and he wanted to catch the mech before he disappeared off to... wherever he actually lived. Though Prowl had run a search for Jazz’s address, none had come up in any Praxian database. If he was staying at a hotel, it was under a pseudonym. If he was staying in a private habsuite, he was doing it under a pseudonym. This was perfectly legal, but it was also perfectly frustrating. While his own address was unlisted by rote of being Lord of Law, Jazz had still managed to find him. Just two quartexes ago he had sent Prowl a crystal arrangement for his emergence-cycle. By some miracle, the thing was still alive. Although Prowl would not say it was thriving under his neglect.

It should have concerned him that Jazz had found his address, but those crystals had been the first emergence-cycle gift Prowl had received in decavorns. His procreators had not bothered to call, neither had his grand-originator. Considering how central “family” was to Praxian culture, Prowl personally found that it was the individual’s service to the family  that actually mattered. The value of the individuals themselves lay entirely in what they could do for the family. Prowl had no use for any of it. He had no use for family. When he approached the back door, the bodyguard let him passed. This also should have perturbed him. But he supposed knowing that Jazz welcomed him outside their games was a positive thing... it really was. A face he recognized from his first visit backstage approached Prowl, and directed him to Jazz’s dressing room. He was so forcefully cheery, Prowl found it a little disturbing.

“Jazz, he’s here,” the cassetticon said as he knocked on the door. “Go on in!”

He was way too cheerful. Something about it felt forced and fake to Prowl but he dismissed all thought of the roadie, and walked into the dressing room as soon as the door opened. Jazz smiled at him, and Prowl’s fuel tank did a little flip flop. The mech was gorgeous. There was a reason his dressing room was filled with stunning crystals, just one look at him could make a mechanism lose their processors. With his plating covered in layers of rich polish, Jazz was dazzling. More than dazzling, he would have been a worthy substitute for the statues of Primus in the temples.  Prowl felt momentarily flustered when Jazz folded his doorwings down and smiled at him.

“Ya been on my processor,” Jazz said as he strolled over to Prowl. 

“Oh?”

“Oh, he says. What brings ya here? Got somethin’ ya want me to trace for ya?”

“No,” Prowl said. “Jazz. Will you look at a picture for me?”

“What’s this about?” Jazz asked, and he took the datapad from Prowl’s servo. With an expression of grief Jazz traced a digit over the picture of the magnetic emblem. “This was my origin’s. Uncle Punch before he left Polihex. He always wore it. Called it his lucky charm.”

“We found it in a chest with similar trophies,” Prowl explained. “We found him Jazz.”

“Y’re sure?” The question was spoken with a quiver.

“Yes. He is probably still confessing. I wanted to tell you, before the light-cycle’s press conference.”

“Prowl. Ya got no idea what this means to me. I’ve been waitin’ for this since I was a younglin’.”

“I am sorry it took this long.”

“It took ya. That’s what it took. It took havin’ ya in a place o’ influence. Ya did this, Prowl. For me, ‘n for the families o’ all those other poor mechanisms.”

“I cannot take all the credit.”

“Maybe not all o’ it. But without ya, those detectives wouldn’t’ve been lookin’ where ya had them lookin’. Thank ya. Thank ya for carin’ ‘bout ‘m.”

Jazz held his face, and kissed him. Prowl sighed into the kiss,  which was quickly followed by another as one kiss became countless as Jazz covered Prowl’s face and neck with kisses while his servos roamed all over Prowl’s back. He dragged his own digits down Jazz’s heavy back plate, and up over his audial horns. It was a feverish embrace. When Jazz stepped backwards, towards the couch, Prowl followed willingly. Jazz never took his servos off Prowl, Prowl never took his servos off him. As his legs hit the couch, Jazz dropped down onto it, and he pulled Prowl into his lap. They could not kiss like this, Prowl was just too much taller than Jazz, but that did not appear to perturb the Polihexian. He stared up at Prowl with unveiled adoration and ran his servos over Prowl’s chassis, and around to cup his aft. Prowl rocked their  lower frames together  and arched his back. When Jazz ran his servos slowly down Prowl’s arms, the Praxian knew what he wanted and he put his arms behind his back, and shuddered with arousal when Jazz clasped his stasis cuffs over his wrists.

“You are obsessed with my stasis cuffs,” Prowl’s voice was husky already, from just a little petting.

“Ya look good in ‘em,” Jazz replied before he bend his neck and lathed his glossa over Prowl’s generous bumper. 

Moaning, Prowl rocked his hips. Jazz urged him on, guiding the grinding of their modesty covers with his servos squeezing Prowl’s aft. His cover snapped back as if by its own accord, and as Prowl ground his slick array against Jazz’s cover. Then he was pinned there, back arched as Jazz reached a servo between Prowl’s legs from behind and quickly stroked his already sopping valve. Prowl tossed his helm back and moaned with unrestrained delight. He did not know what this was. It was not one of their games. But Jazz’s mouth felt so good on his chassis. His digits felt so good against his rim, sinking passed engorged sentio metallico.

“Unh! Jazz!” Prowl gasped as those familiar digits stretched him quickly. “Frag me. Please, frag me.”

“Relax for me,” Jazz ordered. “So soft and wet for me. Gonna make ya feel good.”

“Please!”

Jazz had no more patience than Prowl. In less than a klik he pulled his digits free, taking a moment to paint a messy trail on his aft, before he pulled Prowl close, their arrays lined up perfectly, and pressurized directly into Prowl’s waiting valve. Prowl choked on a cry as he was so perfectly filled. He clutched his valve over Jazz’s spike, already at the very edge of overload. As his digits dug into Prowl’s aft, Jazz buried his face in Prowl’s chassis, and set a quick pace. Despite his best efforts, Prowl could not stop the constant moans. After only a few firm thrusts, Prowl overloaded around Jazz’s spike with a high pitch whine from his engine. Jazz did not stop, and Prowl did not stop. With needy sobs, he bounced in Jazz’s lap as Jazz mouthed at the plating over Prowl’s flaring spark.

“Please!” Prowl begged, and his doorwings hiked up high to add to his plea. “Please!”

“Always so hot ‘n slick,” Jazz groaned. “‘M gonna cum. Frag. Come on, Prowler, cum on my spike. Milk me dry.”

“Jazz!” Prowl cried. The door swung open, but Prowl did not process it. He was overloading and as he did, Prowl shrieked: “Cum in me!”

Lens flashed and Prowl froze. Jazz pulled him close and snarled at the intruders to get out. They disappeared back down the hallway. Prowl trembled as Jazz slipped the cuffs from his wrists, and wrapped his arms around him. It would have been more sensible to pull away from this mech, with whom he had ruined himself, but Prowl whipped his arms around to wrap them around Jazz’s neck, and he trembled.  Those creeps had take pictures. Pictures of him overloading as he was fragged with his arms cuffed behind his back with his own enforcer issued stasis cuffs. They had not seen his face. But they had seen enough, and they had heard enough. Prowl could not stop trembling.

“I have ya,” Jazz crooned as he held Prowl close. “I have ya.”

“I am ruined,” Prowl rasped as the ramifications of this violation came to full clarity in his processor. “I am ruined.”


	25. Scandal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prowl's world falls apart, but Jazz isn't willing to let him fall with it.

It spoke to the central values of Praxus that the capture of a serial killer who had killed twenty-three mechanisms was entirely overshadowed by the scandal of the Lord of Law getting got interfacing with a common entertainer. The tabloids probably would have eaten it up if it had been Jazz getting fragged, but the popular media had latched on to the story too. They plastered partially censored pictures over every data-net story. A short video clip was circulating in the datanet. Jazz was enraged by the violation, that much more enraged knowing that it had been Rewind, the symbiote of one of his oldest friends, had been the one to sneak the paparazzi in. He had overheard them that first dark-cycle they had interfaced, and he had seen Prowl speak at a press conference. Since then Rewind had been waiting and hoping Prowl would return so he could make a big score. Jazz was nauseated by the betrayal. So was Blaster. Though it was note Blaster’s fault, Jazz could not look at him right now, not knowing where Rewind was docked in the cassette-carrier or not.

The theatre was threatening to cancel his remaining concert dates, Jazz would let them if it came to that. Everything about Praxus made him feel sick right now, everything but Prowl. Since the scandal had broken, reporters had been comming him nonstop and Jazz had finally deactivated his comms just to get some peace, save for the one he shared with Prowl. If he reached out, Jazz needed to be there for him. It bothered him a little that Prowl had remained silent since he had left in the dark-cycle. It angered him that it was not Prowl giving the press conferences surrounding the arrest of the “Righteous” Killer. Without his personal touch, that monster would still be roaming the streets, stalking his twenty-fourth victim.

“It’s been suggested within our sources in the senate that Lord Crankhandle will ask Lord of Law, Prowl of Petrex, for his resignation as a result of the scandal...”

“Frag that!” Jazz curse and he tossed his cube at the holo-emitter, and leapt to his peds.

It was not right. In fact, it could not have been more wrong. After solving an unsolvable case these slagsuckers wanted Prowl to step doubt because a bunch of sick freaks had bribed Rewind to own his dressing room door so they could take photos of them fragging. As if fragging was somehow illegal in practice. As if no senator had ever let their lover or Conjunx tied them up. They were sacks of slag, every one of them. Why was no one outraged that their privacy had been so horrifically violated like this? Why were these trash-peddlers allowed to publish pictures of them interfacing? This was not anger Jazz was feeling, this was rage, and he did not know what to do with it. He did not know how to save Prowl.

Wondering again why Prowl had not reached out, Jazz decided he needed to go to him. Knowing the mech, he probably thought he had to face the storm alone. Prowl might even have though Jazz would prefer to save his own reputation, as if he gave a single frag what the media of Praxus thought of him. If his concert dates were cancelled, he would book new ones somewhere else, or perhaps he would take a break to sue every one of these tabloids. That actually did not seem like a bad idea. Thanks to Uncle Punch’s lessons, Jazz had no trouble sneaking out of his hotel, avoiding the rabid media hounds who lay in wait, hoping for a juicy sound bite. The only thing they would here from Jazz was a lawsuit filing. He would find the most vicious shark, and he would unleash them on every single outlet that had dared publish those photos. Sometimes revenge was served best piping hot. Jazz had no desire to let it cool.

Sending the crystals to Prowl’s habsuite a few quartexes ago could have blown up in his face. He had not even been supposed to know when Prowl’s emergence-cycle had been but the date had been in the pubic record. Asking Prowl if he had any plans for the following orn had been a fishing expedition of sorts. Jazz had half hoped Prowl would mention his emergence-cycle so that he could have invited him out. But Prowl had only said he would be working as normal. Working. Since Prowl had not brought up the special cycle, Jazz had not wanted to reveal that he had been snooping. Still, he had not been able to let the mega-cycle go unmarked, and he had sent the crystals, proud and striking arrangement, to the Praxian’s habsuite. Though Jazz had considered sending it to his office but he had thought better of it. Prowl would not have wanted to deal with any questions from his staff. Jazz knew they had been delivered and even well received. Prowl had sent his a personal thank you note, written in his own neat scroll.

Did one bring crystals to apologize for a staff member destroying your lover’s personal life? It sounded vaguely tone deaf but Jazz did not want to turn up empty servoed. On his way to Prowl’s habsuite Jazz stopped at the first florist he found. The designer was a cheerful old mech who did not appear to recognize Jazz at all. As Jazz looked about the arrangements up for sale, the designer approached and asked what he was looking for. Something stunning, for a stunning mech. An apology and a thanks. A tall order, the designer said. He offered to put something together, if Jazz had time to wait. He did. Jazz left the floral artist to his work and picked up Vosian high grade and take out. They were not so much peace offerings as gifts of kindness. Prowl had probably not thought of fuel since he had raced home to wait for ruin to come. Jazz would take care of him. He was a mech who benefited from a little care, and Prowl would benefit more from it now than ever.

“It’s all done,” the artist said when Jazz returned. The arrangement was simple and elegant. It suited Prowl how no grand thing ever could.

“It’s gorgeous,” Jazz said. The price should have made him flinch, but Jazz was well paid for what he did. “It suits ‘m.”

“Do you want me to gift wrap it?”

“Please.”

“If you want a card...”

“No, I think this I need to deliver myself.”

“Got yourself into trouble?”

“Not exactly. But I did help ruin his life. I hope he’ll let me help fix it.”

He drove carefully, dinner and crystals boxed carefully in his cab. Jazz had not driven this way before, that would have been too big an overstep. That would have been stalking and Jazz was not that much of a creep. It was a good looking neighbourhood with cafes, parks and neat habsuite towers. The mechanisms living around Prowl were solidly middle-class. Though the surroundings seemed to suit _Prowl_ , they did not suit his station. Given his station, and given the culture, Prowl should have lived in one of the gated communities near the Helix Garden. The fact that he did not just made him all the more interesting and all the more endearing.

His original attraction to Prowl had been to his conviction and his poise. Jazz had wanted to test both. He had been twisted up with anger, and the promise that his mech actually wanted justice for his origin had seemed like a joke, or a pipe dream. Kissing him had been a fit of madness, and Jazz would have been wrong to expect Prowl to be so agreeable. But he had been agreeable, agreeable and enthusiastic. The stern mech who had come to talk to him about his origin had been so responsive. He had been so talented with his glossa. His cut off moans and cries had been intoxicating. As soon as Prowl had left that dark-cycle, Jazz had wanted another chance to touch and to taste. How fortunate he had been that Prowl had been equally aroused by the little game of Tear ‘n Chase. Watching him try to hold his glossa as Jazz had worked to wring more and more sweet cries from him still served as a masturbation aid. Jazz could watch that memory on a loop. Those cries were addictive. Those pleasure drunk optics were intoxicating. How so quiet and stolid a mech could come undone so completely had been processor boggling. Being the one to make it happen had been thrilling. There was no doubt that Jazz was addicted to Prowl.

There was no watchmech at the door. Which was unfortunate because there was a rabid hoard filling the sidewalk. Jazz could do nothing for it. He was not going to run away and leave Prowl to be tormented. Knowing that these slagtards would be publishing photos of him arriving, arms laden with crystals and fuel annoyed Jazz, but he did not know if there was a back way in. As soon as they saw him approached, their lens flashed and Jazz scowled viciously. They shoved their recorders in his face and demanded a statement, and Jazz pushed passed them all. If he could not sue them, maybe he would buy the publishers. Then he could file these freaks. Jazz turned his back to them, doorwings folded down under his backplate in a great big frag you to Praxus, and rang the bell.

“It’s me, Prowl. Lemme up.”

The lock released and the door swung open. Before any of the reporters or photogs could slip in after him, Jazz slammed the door in their faces. He felt a little sorry for Prowl’s neighbours, whose peace had been so thoroughly disrupted, but he felt sorry for Prowl, whose life was unravelling before his optics. Jazz could hear the muffled yelling from the end of the hall and he frowned. Jazz knew Prowl was unbonded, and he knew that he lived alone. So who could be tearing a strip off him like this? Unless the Lord of Praxus has decided to pay him a personal visit. That seemed like an impossible stretch. Through the door Jazz hurt an unfamiliar voice call Prowl a worthless whore and Jazz snarled. He palmed the door, and was a little surprised when it opened. A Praxian Jazz did not recognize turned sharply when the door opened at his back. The mech sneered down his olfactory ridge at Jazz. Jazz might have flipped him off, but his servos were full. He shoved passeed the aft, and put himself between Prowl and his abuser.

“It’s time for ya to go,” Jazz said. He placed the crystal arrangement in Prowl’s servos. “I brought dinner.”

“You do not tell me when it is time for me to leave my creation’s habsuite,” the snubbed Praxian snarled.

“Seemed to me ya ain’t welcome. Is he?”

“No,” Prowl replied.

“There ya go, make tracks ya piece of slag.”

“Excuse me?”

“I heard what ya called Prowl. Get the frag out ‘less ya want me to throw ya out.”

“You will not place a digit on me.”

“Try me.”

“Go home, Originator,” Prowl said. “Your presence serves no purpose.”

“No purpose. You disgrace our entire family! Your grand-originator is outraged.”

“What makes you think I care for your outrage?” Prowl replied. “We have not spoken in four vorns. I have not spoken to Windbreaker in ten. You have only ever claimed me as kin when it has benefited you. I do not care to be claimed by you now.”

“Who would claim you, you harlot?”

“I would,” Jazz snarled. “I do. ‘N if I hear ya insult Prowl just one more time, I’ll break yer olfactory ridge.”

“You do not have a claim.”

“Considerin’ ‘m bondin’ to the mech, I think I do.”

“I will never allow some filthy half-breed to bond to _my_ creation!”

“I don’t recall askin’ yer permission.”

“Uncultured swine!”

“Mech, I been hated by far more impressive mechanisms. Yer opinion ain’t worth the dirt I walk on. Time for ya to go.”

Jazz did not shove Prowl’s originator from the habsuite so much as frog march him. He would not want to be accused of assaulting him. The mech shrieked vitriol, but Jazz ignored it. It was with great pleasure that he slammed the door in the slagtard’s face and turned the deadbolt for good measure. When he turned back to Prowl, Jazz saw tears in his optics and he went to him, and brushed the tears away. That mech did not deserve so good a mech as Prowl for a creation. When he thought of his own originator, and when he thought of Uncle Punch, Jazz could not imagine either calling him any of those disgusting names, and he could not imagine either of them bringing him to tears with their wrath.

“Let’s sit ‘n eat, Prowler.”

“You brought me crystals.”

“They don’t feel like enough,” Jazz said, and he stroked Prowl’s cheekplates with his thumbs. “It was one o’ my staff that let the scraplets in. He recognized ya when ya first visited my dressin’ room ‘n he heard us. He was just waitin’ for ya to comeback so he could score a big payout.”

“The blame is not yours,” Prowl replied. He led Jazz into the kitchen and place the pretty crystals on the counter. From the where he was standing, Jazz could see the arrangement he had sent Prowl quartexes earlier was sitting in the window. It pleased him more than he could have hoped to articulate.

“In a way it is. I trusted Rewind. I trusted each ‘n everyone o’ the mechanisms in my show. I thought we were a good team.”

“You are not to blame for his actions.”

“Neither are ya, Prowler but yer payin’ for ‘em.”

“I have been asked to resign.”

“Don’t.”

“If I do not it will be brought to a committee and I will be fired.”

“Don’t, Prowl. Lemme try ‘n fix this.”

“Bonding would not fix it, Jazz. I am being painted as a perverted degenerate. They are not entirely wrong.”

“Ya ain’t perverted. ‘N ya ain’t a degenerate.”

“In the optics of my caste, I am. I am at least an amoral disgrace.”

“Ya ain’t. Y’re amazin’. It ain’t right that their ignorin’ all ya did. Solvin’ an unsolvable case like ya did. They should be givin’ ya accolades, not jeerin’ ya for gettin’ caught in the act of ‘facin’.”

“Jazz, you cannot want to bond to me.”

“‘N why not?”

“Because... Because... You like being a vagabond. You said so.”

“Ya could come wit me. I was thinkin’ o’ headin’ back to Iacon if the theatre cancels the rest o’ my shows. I ain’t recorded in a while. ‘N I got an in there if I wanna get out on stage.”

“You would get tired of me.”

“Tired o’ ya? I can’t get ‘nough o’ ya.”

“That’s just lust.”

“Not gonna pretend I don’t lust after ya bad, but that ain’t everythin’. I ain’t met a mech I admired more.”

“It would not save my function, Jazz. I am done as Lord of Law. They consider my judgment too flawed to hold such an office. Bonding to you would only be seen as a poor attempt to save face. In any case, my procreators would never accept the match. Without their acceptance there can be no bond.”

“Come wit me to Iacon. Prime’ll bond us.”

“What would the point be, Jazz?” Prowl looked equal parts defeated and angry. “I am ruined. Why shackle yourself to me?”

“I wouldn’t be shackled,” Jazz countered. “Lemme take care o’ ya Prowl.”

“You sent me crystals for my emergence-cycle.”

“I wasn’t sure how to tell ya I knew it was comin’ up without soundin’ like a creep. I hoped ya would mention it, so I could invite ya to dinner but ya said ya were workin’. Didn’t feel right to just ignore the cycle.”

“I do not tend to mark it. No one has acknowledged it in eons.”

“They don’t deserve ya.”

“Cousin Barricade will be relieved that I have surpassed him as the family’s greatest disappointment.”

“They are the disappointments. Have dinner wit me Prowl. At least think ‘bout it.”

“You brought me dinner and crystals.”

“‘N high grade,” Jazz said. “I figured ya could probably use some tendin’ to.”

“Thank you, Jazz.”

They fuelled together, sitting at the counter in Prowl’s kitchen. The dining room table was covered in boxes and hard drives containing every last bit of evidence ever gathered on the “Righteous” Killer. Jazz thought it looked a little like chaos but he suspected Prowl knew where everything was. He was a genius, and Jazz could not help but marvel a little at the devotion of this mech. If Jazz could only convince him to come to Iacon, Optimus would hire him onto his staff in a flash. Jazz had done interesting work for him, the same work his uncle did, and brilliant processor were often in short supplies in the world of special operations. Prowl could do amazing things for Iacon and its allies. Perhaps the fragile peace between the alliance nicknamed the Autobots, and the one nicknamed the Decepticons could still hold.

“Y’re wiped out,” Jazz declared as he capped the high grade. “Can I take ya to yer berth.”

“I do not think I want to interface.”

“No interface, Prowler. Just a massage to help loosen those knots in yer back, ‘n a long recharge.”

“You intend to stay?”

“If y’ll have me.”

“I will.”


	26. Sleepover

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jazz shows Prowl how much he cares.

Prowl deserved a proper proposal, though he probably would have denied any need, or desire for pageantry. That was fair. From his experience with Prowl, and Jazz was willing to admit that it was not a great deal, the mech had simple tastes, and simple needs. Mostly, Prowl needed affection. He needed someone who cared for him, and who would take care of him. Jazz was not sure why he thought _he_ was the one most up for the task, but he was certain he could do right by Prowl. There was no doubt in his processor that he could do better by Prowl than anyone ever had. It broke his spark a little to know how little the mechanisms who should have loved Prowl most did not care at all for him. Those mechs did not deserve him.

Doorwings drooped impossibly low, Prowl led Jazz to his berthroom. It did not surprise Jazz at all to see how utilitarian the furnishings were. This had not been a place Prowl had ever lingered in. All he had used it for was a quick recharge. There had been no lazy light-cycles or steamy dark-cycles spent here. Prowl had told Jazz that it had been a long time since he had been in a study relationship, not since his time in metaforensics. The relationship with another enforcer had soured quickly, and the fallout in his professional life had soured Prowl on romantic attachments. He had turned his entire focus onto his work, and his career had moved at a staggering clip, until Prowl had been caught in Jazz’s arms.

“I should have bought more pillows,” Prowl said. “There is only the one.”

“Don’t worry ‘bout it, Prowler,” Jazz replied. “How ‘bout ya stretch out ‘n I’ll give ya that massage.”

“You do not mind?”

“Primus, no.”

Prowl fold back the blanket and stretched out on his belly. Jazz smiled. He was glad to be trusted this much. For good measure, Jazz poured a conductive lubricant to his servos and sat next to Prowl, and gently began to massage his back. As he soothed his servos over Prowl’s strong shoulders, he took care to keep his magnetic pulses low, just enough to each tense component but not enough to spike Prowl’s charge. It was important to respect Prowl’s feelings. It was vitally important that he see Jazz did not only see him as a convenient frag. Slowly the tension in Prowl’s frame ebbed and he sank into his berthpad, engine rumbling with contentment. He sighed softly as Jazz massaged his neck and helm. When Jazz retracted his servos, Prowl’ optics were dim and his ventilations were smooth and even. Jazz smiled with satisfaction. Though Prowl stirred a little when Jazz pulled the blanket up to cover him, his optics dimmed to black when Jazz kissed the corner of his optic and settled into berth next to him, and cuddled into Prowl’s side, under his doorwing. When Jazz dimmed his own optics, and initiated recharge protocols, he thought he would enjoy recharging like this every dark-cycle.

Jazz woke before Prowl, and he was glad for it. He slipped out of the berth, and tiptoed into the kitchen. It was no surprise to see Prowl did not keep much but the most basic fuel in stock. For what he had in processor, Jazz would need a few groceries, but he was not interested in facing the hoard to get them. Instead, he paid for delivery and offered a generous tip for any trouble the hoard might present. While he waited, Jazz cleaned up the dishes they had left from dinner, and made plans. There was a note in his inbox from his manager. His remaining shows had been postponed, it was everyone’s expectation that they would be cancelled due to the scandal. He would make sure his fans got their tickets refunded, and he would make sure it was the theatre that paid the costs, as well as his fees. They would fight, of course they would, but Jazz’s contract was sound, and he had it memorized. Short of criminal misconduct, they had no grounds to cancel the shows. Jazz would let the lawyers fight that fight.

While he had told Prowl to fight the Lord of Praxus, and the puritanical senators, Jazz really wanted nothing more than to take Prowl away from Praxus and the media slagstorm, and to Pit with the Lord and his sycophants. Jazz had a habsuite in Iacon, if he commed Uncle Punch or Ricochet, they would get it stocked up with fuel. They might already have been waiting for his call. If Prowl agreed to bond, Jazz would want them there. Would it hurt Prowl to have no family in attendance. Probably, but he was too selfless to ever ask Jazz to forego having his family present. It was something they would have to talk about because Jazz would not let him suffer in silence.

When the buzzer sounded Jazz buzzed the courier up. As he waited by the door, his servo was curled into a fist. If the mechanism had let those scumsuckers follow them up, Jazz was going to break someone’s olfactory ridge, as well as filing a complaint with the delivery service. To his pleasure, there was only one mech at the door when he opened it. The youngling was starry opticked when he saw his customer was Jazz. Regardless what frametype his fans wore, Jazz appreciated them all, and he gave the young mech an autograph before he finished stammering his request. Happy, respectful fans were more than bearable, they were a real treat.

“For yer trouble,” Jazz said, and he gave the youngling two-hundred shanix for a tip.

“Thank you!”

The scandal would not hurt Jazz in the short term, let alone the long term. In fact, he could twist it to serve him, so long as Prowl was agreeable. Jazz could turn it into a love story. He could turn Prowl into a tragic hero. Praxus might be a lost cause, but Iacon was not, nor was the rest of Cybertron. If he spun it right, Praxus would come out of it looking like a backwards relic. That would suit Jazz nicely. While he waited for Prowl to get up, Jazz arranged luminous crystals around the habsuite, and put energon crystals in the press. Prowl had never let him brew his energon for him, explaining no one could brew it strong enough. This light-cycle, Jazz was up for the challenge. He had watched Prowl brew his poison, and it had reminded him of the energon they had brewed in the precinct he had so briefly served at. Jazz thought he could get it close. If Prowl said yes, Jazz would have lots of opportunities to perfect it.

As the black mixture simmered, Jazz put together a thin batter and made energon crepes. Though Prowl’s panel did not have quite as heavy a bottom as Jazz preferred, he could make crepes in anything. Uncle Punch had been a good teacher. As he flipped a crepe, Jazz heard pedsteps coming down the hall and he turned to the doorway, pan in servo as Prowl appeared. Jazz smiled as Prowl slowly absorbed the scene. The Praxian looked around the kitchen, and his habsuite. When Prowl smiled it was a little shy and just so sweet. Jazz delighted in it.

“Have a seat, Prowler,” Jazz crooned. “Crepes’ are just ‘bout done. Yer energon could use another klik.”

“You are making breakfast,” Prowl said, as he sat. “You are making my energon.”

“I enjoy cookin’. ‘N I enjoy treatin’ ya.”

“You have always treated me well.”

“I want to take care of ya,” Jazz said as he rolled and plated the crepes. He added oil syrup and some rust shavings, and set the plates on the counter, then he poured Prowl’s energon. “I want to appreciate ya.”

“You have.”

“For the rest of our lives, Prowl. I was plannin’ on how I’d see ya after I finished the tour. I was thinkin’ bout how I could keep this thing goin’ because I didn’t wanna be done wit ya I figured I’d sweep ya off yer peds, before ya noticed what I was doin’, ‘n I’d ask ya to bond in some pretty holiday settin’. I figured it would take a couple o’ vorns to convince ya. I don’t mind speedin’ things up.”

“Bonding will not save my function, or my reputation.”

“Not bondin’ suggests I only thought to use ya, like yer a disposable playthin’. Ya ain’t. Y’re irreplaceable.”

“Oh,” Prowl quickly brushed a tear away.

“I swear I’ll make ya happy,” Jazz said. “‘M sure I’ll make ya angry too. But when we fight, we’ll just make up. ‘N have fantastic make up interface.”

“Jazz!” Prowl flushed and his optics sparkled.

“Prowl, if ya would, please do me the honour o’ bein' my Conjunx Endura.”

“I will drive you crazy.”

“‘N I’ll enjoy every nanoklik.”

“You think the Prime will actually agree to bond us, knowing how opposed my procreators will be?”

“He won’t give a frag ‘bout anyone’s opinions but ours.”

“I will bond to you, Jazz. I would like to be your Conjunx Endura.”

“I won’t let ya down.”

They shared a kiss, but for a change did not linger on it. That was not entirely true, Jazz’s processor lingered on it, and on Prowl. He enjoyed his breakfast, and he enjoyed watching Prowl savour his crepes. Jazz thrilled when Prowl smiled as he sipped his energon, savouring it too. Jazz was delighted at the prospect of more light-cycles like this. It would not be every light-cycle, even though he could provide for them both, he knew Prowl was forged to work. Being a stay at home junxie would not make him happy at all. But there would be light-cycles like this. Just the two of them enjoying each other’s company. One mega-cycle there could be sparkings with them, making proper disasters as they played with their fuel. Jazz thought he would like that.

“Thank you, Jazz,” Prowl said and he kissed Jazz. “Thank you for wanting me.”

“Forever.”

Jazz would have been happy to just clean up after breakfast and to let Prowl sort out his mega-cycle, but they lingered in the kiss, servos exploring each other’s frames. Tender touches quickly became more heated. Soon Prowl was leaning over the counter as Jazz kissed his shoulders and toyed with his doorwings. Prowl chewed on the back of his fist, as always trying to keep himself quiet. Jazz did not know why Prowl was so concerned about the volume of his cries, they were music to Jazz’s audial horns. So were the muffled moans and sigh. Under his servos, Jazz felt Prowl trembling. When he reached between Prowl’s legs he found his intended’s array bared, his spike pressurized and his valve dripping, and he moaned his approval into Prowl’s back. Prowl so responsive. Jazz found him intoxicating. He bit and then sucked a little dent into Prowl’s left doorwing, just were it tuck out from his back plate, fully intending to leave it there until his self repair systems repaired it. It was a subtle but public claim. Under his attention, Prowl was panting, and he whined as Jazz wrapped his arms around his hips and stroke his anterior node as is played with his rim.

“Jazz!”

“Y’re hot as the smelter,” Jazz praised his intended. “I want ya to overload ‘round my digits before I spike ya.”

“Please.”

“So sweet when ya beg,” Jazz crooned. He stroked Prowl’s anterior node in little circles, varying the pressure, zapping it with a little magnetic pulse, as he pumped his digit into Prowl’s quivering valve. For the first few strokes, Jazz avoided the most sensitive nodes within his lover, not wanting to overload him too quickly. He enjoyed the feeling of Prowl’s tight, hot core clutching at his digits.

“Please, please, please, pl...” Prowl cried and shuddered. He was close. Jazz added a fourth digits, and he twisted them inside Prowl as he pulsed his magnets from the inside and out. “Eease!”

Prowl soaked Jazz’s servo with his lubricants as his spike sprayed the counter. Jazz tore his servo free and drove his spike home before Prowl’s overload ended. Listening to the intended keen as he glided over his sensitized nodes, and dragged that overload on and on. Painfully aroused by the sight Prowl made, Jazz immediately set a quickfire pace as he was determined to frag his lover senseless. Denta clenched, Jazz covered Prowl’s fists with his own, and he stared at Prowl’s face as his jaw fell open and his optics glowed white bright and unseeing. With each deep stroke, Jazz struck Prowl’s cervical node, and punched a high moan from Prowl’s slack lips. Jazz dropped his servos between Prowl’s legs and stroked his limp spike, and pulsing node until he felt Prowl flex hard over his own spike, and with one last thrust to the hilt, Jazz overloaded deep inside his intended. Not trusted his own legs, Jazz stayed curled over Prowl until his lover fluttered his valve over his discharged spike.

“Y’re pure sin, Prowl,” Jazz moaned into his neck.

“I want to christen the couch,” Prowl declared, voice husky and rich like engex. Jazz’s spike twitched with interest. “As soon as I can feel my legs.”

“Just the couch?”

“Mm. Jazz, you can have me anywhere you want me.”

“Oh, Lover, that a dangerous offer.”


	27. Wedding

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prowl enjoys a reunion with the only other mech in the world that really could understand what life had been like growing up in that family. He is thrilled to have some family present as he and Jazz bond. Their honeymoon is cut short when Jazz is called away. While he's gone, Prowl receives a guest he could never want to see.
> 
> Please don't kill me but odds are tomorrow's update will be very late, or it will be Saturday. I'm going to see my parents after work and I won't be home until late. So not sure when I'm expected to write.

The orn passed like a whirlwind. When he had not resign, as the Lord had promised, Prowl had been suspended barring an investigation. Though the investigation was still unfolding, he knew what the results would be, this was Praxus after all. But with Jazz’s encouragement, Prowl had hired a lawyer to make the process as painful for the powers that be as possible. In response to his refusal to resign, Prowl had been trespassed from his office in the Hall of Justice. Flash had kindly packed his office for him. There had been tears when he had personally delivered Prowl’s belongs. He had not come alone, Skids had come along as well. Prowl had been surprised to see tears in Skids’ optics as well, and the outpouring of support for his staff brought Prowl to tears as well. Wanting to protect the enforcers who had worked so hard, and achieved what their predecessors had all said was impossible, Prowl had refrained from visiting the precinct, and instead had sent a message to Nightbeat via Skids to share with the task force, expressing his pride in them, and his gratitude for the work they had done.

Jazz was at the theatre at the moment, packing up his show. There was still too much anger in Jazz for there to be sparkbreak over the cancellations. Still, he visited with the fans that gathered at the theatre to protest each time he went in. In doing this he was ensuring they knew that the choice had not been his, and that he appreciated every one of them. Though he outright rebuked any reporter that approached, they still filmed him, and they published interviews with the fans that chose to speak with them. Because some fans had asked questions about Counterpunch and the arrest of the Righteous Killer, Jazz had told them stories of his originator, stories he had never shared in carefully scripted interviews, and he had expressed gratitude to the enforcers who had worked so diligently, and he had praised Prowl for his determination, and his brilliance, and he had called him he great love of his life. The praise had been for the reporters’ audials, but their recorders had been sensitive enough to pick it up, and Prowl had heard it as he had waited for Nightbeat’s interview to air. The praise seemed all the more sincere, knowing that it had not been meant to be overheard. The proclamation of love had Prowl flushing, thank Primus he was alone.

There was a chime at his door, and it startled Prowl. He had not buzzed anyone into the building. Prowl turned off the holo-emitter. It could not have been Jazz, he was still at the theatre. If it was his originator again, or his progenitor, or Unicron take him, both, Prowl would shut the door in their faceplates. His habsuite was nearly half packed, and he had arranged buyers for the furniture he would no longer be needing. Jazz had a home in Iacon, furnitured better than Prowl’s, and he had asked his uncle to make sure it was ready to be lived in. Prowl would be leaving Praxus on a private shuttle to Iacon in two mega-cycles. No one knew, no one but him and Jazz. In four mega-cycles they would be bonded in a ceremony performed by Optimus Prime, in front of the energon pools. There were cyber butterflies in Prowl’s fuel tank. He thought they were more from anticipation than nerves. Really, Prowl thought he should feel more uneasy at the prospect of bonding to a mech he had known for so little time, but it felt oddly right. Looking back at all the crates, Prowl thought better of just opening the door, and he looked out the peephole. There was a Praxian standing in front of his door. One he had not seen in decavorns.

“Cousin Barricade,” Prowl greeted as he opened the door. “This is unexpected.”

“Your comms are down,” Barricade explained with a casual shrug of his doorwings. “I thought I out to checkup on you. Considering the clusterfrag blowing up around you.”

“Did you want to come in?” Prowl asked. “I warn you my habsuite is not really fit for company.”

“If you don’t mind.”

Prowl did not know if he minded or not, but he stepped aside and allowed Barricade to step inside. They had hardly spoken two glyphs the last time they had seen each other, at festival banquet their grand-originator had thrown, the last one either of them had been bothered to attend. Barricade’s absence might have been exile, Prowl did not actually know. His had certainly been a self-exile. They had both been enforcers. That had been the only thing Prowl could think of them ever having in common, other than some shared code. He led Barricade into the kitchen and loaded his energon press. His cousin looked around at the crates, and back to Prowl.

“Don’t tell me you got evicted over this scrap?” Barricade asked.

“No. I am relocating to Iacon, at least for the time being,” Prowl explained. “My intended has a home there, and kin who are excited to see him.”

“You’re really bonding to that singer. Uncle Templar was shrieking about him tossing him out of your apartment.”

“Jazz did not toss Originator out. He walked him out, with my gratitude.”

“I suppose moving to Iacon saves you the trouble of trying to convince any priest in Praxus to perform the Rites.”

“Considering they are all within Originator’s circles, that would be a lost cause. Jazz is feeling homesick. He would like to be back amongst mechanisms who respect him.”

“What about you?”

“There is nothing in Praxus for me.”

“I thought you were fighting this thing. They were talking about it all light-cycle.”

“I am fighting it. Or rather, I have a lawyer fighting it, but Barricade, you and I both know Praxus. I will not be Lord of Law much longer. I will never be an enforcer again. Why should I stay, begging for someone to lower themselves to employ me?”

“What will you do in Iacon,” Barricade asked.

“I have work that out. Jazz suggests the Prime will leap at the chance to hire me, but I can hardly say if this is so, considering I have not met the mech.”

“I never thought you’d wave so many waves. Praxus will be talking about you for vorns. Grand-originator will cure your designation for longer... since the old rust heap doesn’t seem capable of dying.”

“He does appear immortal,” Prowl said. He poured them both cubes, and led his cousin to the couch. “How have you been doing, Barricade. I do not follow the family gossip.”

“Fine. Working private security. I get to be my own boss. It works.”

“That does sound like it suits you.”

“It does. It pays enough to keep me and Cam comfortable.”

“How is your mechling?” Prowl asked. Camshaft was Barricade’s illegitimate creation, the result of an affair between him and his commander. His cousin’s career had been destroyed by the scandal. Thankfully, the Praefectus Vigilum had also been dismissed, that had been the only fairness out of that mess. Prowl had never met Camshaft. The mechling’s designation had not been etched on the family scroll. Windbreaker did not claim him.

“Great. He’s a cheeky thing. It hard to discipline him when he makes me laugh with all his antics.”

“Do you have a picture?”

“Yeah!” Barricade smiled, and took an imager out of his subspace. “I’m your stereotypical origin, I guess. I’m always carrying it around. In case I have an excuse to show him off.”

“He has your face,” Prowl observed the mechlings bright gold faceplates, and his wide grin. “He favours you in general, I think.”

“It makes it easy to love him,” Barricade replied. “He doesn’t wear the face of a mech I hate.”

“It is your proceators loss that they do not know their grand-creation.”

“It is. But it’s Cam’s gain. They were rotten procreators. I would have let them around him, probably. If they hadn’t decided he was less that scrap before he even emerged. They tried to force me to have an abortion. They tricked me into think the Convoy was taking me home, but it was really one of those clinics.”

“I am sorry. I cannot even pretend to be surprised.”

“Windbreaker’s code ran true. Both of his creations are sanctimonious scraplets.”

“That is entirely too accurate a description.”

“You want to bond to this, Jazz, right?” Barricade asked. “You aren’t just bonding to save yourself from some of this slag? If you’re just worried about keeping your helm dry, you could move in with me and Cam.”

“Barricade, I would never have expected such a generous offer from you,” Prowl released a slow vent. “Thank you. But I do want to bond to Jazz. At this moment, I cannot think of anything I want more.”

“When’s it happening?”

“In four mega-cycles.”

“Scrap! Your mech works quick... You aren’t sparked up?”

“No! I think I might like to be, soon. We talked about it. We both want creations. I know I would like to carry.”

“You’d be a better origin than either of ours. I can’t see you screaming or smacking at a sparkling for colouring outside the lines.”

“Never... that was me. It was. It was my originator. I always feel a little nervous when I pick up a stylus. Of course, that would be why.”

“I caught knocked around for asking questions and mouthing off. You got knocked around because you were just a little less than perfect.”

“You did not deserve the abuse anymore than I did. Considering you laugh when your creation defies you, I imagine you are a far better originator than either of ours.”

“Thanks. I don’t suppose you have any guests coming to your ceremony.”

“I do. Jazz’s family. He has some friends in Iacon as well.”

“I don’t suppose you’d like someone standing on your side.”

“I would, Barricade. I would be honoured. I would be thrilled. You could bring your little one. I have never met him.”

“Cam would love to meet his... Uncle? Cousin? Eh... Semantics.”

Camshaft carried the bonding emblems up the cobblestone walkway for the ceremony. He was a charming mechling, and utterly delighted to have the honour. They had intended to carry their own emblems, but when they had met Camshaft and Barricade of dinner, along with Punch and Ricochet, Jazz had suggested Camshaft would be perfect for the role. Jazz had ingratiated himself on Barricade with that offer, and Prowl of course fell a little more in love with him. His spark had been a flutter, and the desire to carry sparks for this mech had grown suddenly a thousand times stronger. There would be none yet, his implant remained in place, but Prowl wanted to remove it, urgently. Logically, they should wait a while. Prowl’s spark did not feel logical.

Instead of having sides representing the bonding couple, their guests were arranged in a horseshoe around them, with no divide in between them. Ricochet, Jazz’s secret twin, stood with Barricade. He had been quite charming with the mechling, and the mechlings originator, the previous dark-cycle. When Jazz had spoken of Ricochet before, it had seemed like this mech was a cousin, like Barricade was to Prowl. But in truth, the dark-cycle when Counterpunch had given emergence to Jazz, he had also given emergence to a second newling. Such a thing was not permitted in Praxus, and he called his brother, his own twin, to take the mechling away, and to raise him in his stead. The twins had only been reunited after Counterpunch had died. Prowl trusted Barricade to mind his own spark, and he trusted Jazz to smack his brother if he played games with Barricade.

With the Prime presiding over the ceremony, Prowl stood with Jazz, their servos intertwined, as they spoke the rights. In a rare moment, at least for Prowl to witness, Jazz had his doorwings up and open. Prowl placed his emblems on Jazz’s doorwings, and on his chassis, and Jazz did the same for him. They exchanged vials of innermost energon, and Optimus Prime spoke a blessing over them, honouring their union. Their guests cheered when they kissed, and threw, shimmering powder over them. Jazz chuckled when Camshaft sneezed. Mirage, a good friend of Jazz’s, hosted a reception for the newly bonded couple in his home in the Translucentica Heights. It was a quiet celebration, with good fuel and good company. Jazz must have told him Prowl’s weakness for ruststicks as the oil cake was decorated with them. Prowl had never imagined his bonding-cycle, in fact he had been actively avoiding such a mega-cycle for most of his adult life. Now that he was in the moment, Prowl did not believe anything in his imagination could have matched this.

They were all but trumpeted off to enjoy their bonding dark-cycle. As much as Prowl had enjoyed the reception, and even the ceremony, he very much wanted to be alone with Jazz, in their berth. The very moment they were in their habsuite, Prowl was kissing Jazz. He wrapped his arms around his Conjunx Endura’s neck and humming his pleasure at having this mech for his own. Jazz cupped his face, and deepened the kiss, Prowl could taste and feel his purr of delight. Though the berthroom was their end goal, they could not quite make it there. Jazz claimed Prowl, for the first time as Conjunx Endurae, against the wall of the livingroom, with Prowl’s leg bend over his shoulder. Only after they had both overloaded did they manage to keep their servos off each other long enough to make it to the berthroom.

It was a pretty berth, and a comfortable one. The pad was thing, and the pillows were plentiful. There was an ornate chain draped over the headboard, Prowl’s stassis cuffs dangled from it. Jazz groaned at the sight of Prowl’s bonding gift, and he urged Prowl down to the berth, sealing the cuffs over Prowl’s wrists as soon as he raised his arms. Prowl’s charge soared as soon as they latched. He reached up his helm to kiss Jazz and was pleased when his bonded indulged him. Jazz indulged them both. With Prowl restrained, Jazz could touch him wherever he wanted, taste whatever he wanted, and Jazz took full advantage. This was why Prowl delighted in being at Jazz’s mercy. It was a tender and licentious mercy. His mouth on Prowl’s bumper had him sighing, though it sounded more like a whine. He paid special attention to the plating surrounding the emblem he had magnetize at the centre of Prowl’s chassis, just above his broad, firm bumper. There was no part of Prowl’s frame that just did not stroke and tease. Prowl was soon laying in a pool of his own slick as Jazz was not satisfied with teasing only one overloaded from him.

But when Jazz filled him again, slowly sinking his spike all the way to hilt, Prowl felt perfect bliss. He looked up at his Conjunx as Jazz slowly made love to him. His legs crossed over Jazz’s hips, ensuring he could not leave him. Prowl’s jaw fell open and he moaned freely, knowing how much Jazz delighted in his every wanton cry. Already relaxed from his first overload, Prowl’s internal sensors quickly burned hot as Jazz’s spike gentle glided over them. As he lingered at the precipice, Prowl tossed his helm and moaned, almost deliriously. Gently, Jazz eased Prowl’s legs part and pushed them all the way back to his chassis as he changed his angle, and plunged in deeper. All Prowl could do now was writhe under him. It was what Jazz delighted in most, having Prowl had his total mercy, as he blew every one of his breakers. Jazz was so close, Prowl could almost not bear it. He arched his back, best as he could, and bared his spark to his mate. This was the one thing they had never shared.

“Take me,” Prowl said. “I want to be your true sparkmate.”

“How can I resist ya?” Jazz asked.

“You are not meant to,” Prowl replied and he arched his back as he writhed on Jazz’s spike. “I want to feel your spark _in_ mine. I want you to _fill_ me with everything you are. I want you to _kindle_ a spark in me.”

“Ya took out yer implant?” Jazz asked, only lightly rolling his hips, teasing Prowl terribly as his spike lightly massaged over his nodes.

“No. I want you to remove it... Since my servos are preoccupied.”

“They are. Ya don’t wanna wait?”

“I wanted to jump you when I saw how perfect you were with Camshaft. I wanted you to spark me up then and there.”

“Minx,” Jazz purred. He reached into Prowl’s spark chamber, and moaned as Prowl’s spark flared. Prowl shuddered with pleasure. When Jazz retracted his servo, he was holding Prowl’s implanted. “Tell me again what ya want me to do?”

“I want you to take me. I want you to put a spark in me.”

“If ya don’t ignite this time, I’ll just keep ya chained up in the berth ‘til ya do.”

“Oh yes,” Prowl moaned.

“I can’t wait to see yer forge ‘round out,” Jazz said as he stroked the smooth protoform under Prowl’s bumper. He rolled his hips and ground his spike against Prowl’s cervical node. Desperate whines broe from Prowl’s vocalizer. “I wonder if y’ll be ravenous, or if y’ll finally o’ had yer fill.”

“Never.”

Jazz laughed, and he lowered himself down, covering Prowl completely. His spark chamber irised open, centimetres from Prowl’s own. Prowl trembled with anticipation. He could feel the heat of Jazz’s spark against his plating. Then their chassis knocked together and their sparks surged within their separate chambers, and crashed together. And all at once Prowl knew Jazz, knew him beyond thought, and deeper than glyphs could explain, and he knew Jazz was feeling the same wonder. There was no part of his essence that held back, his spark entwined with Jazz’s completely within the space their two united chambers made. They were one. Prowl found joy and pleasure he could not have imagined possible. He cried Jazz’s designation in his spark and allowed as their two sparks, made one, overloaded together, and sank back into their separate chambers. Jazz collapsed over Prowl, who lay almost limp under him, valve lazily milking the transfluids from his discharging spike.

It took joors before either of them had enough cognitive function to try and separate. Jazz released Prowl’s wrists from the cuffs, and quickly, gently wiped him down. The only really way to get clean at this point would be a shower, but neither had the energy or the will for that. Prowl rolled onto his side and curled up against Jazz’s chassis. He did not know if their merge had been successful, and could not know for quartexes yet, but he could hope, and he could imagine. If they had not succeeded, then they would try again, and if they had, Jazz would ensure Prowl’s frame had all the materials it could ever need to forge them a healthy newling. Against Jazz’s neck, Prowl smiled a dreaming smile. He had never dared home his life could be so perfect.

“Prowler?” Prowl slowly onlined his optics. The sun was shining through the window. They had recharged late into the mega-cycle.

“Jazz?” He hummed the question. Prowl felt languid and blissfully content.

“I brewed yer energon. ‘M sorry I gotta leave ya. My manager called. Some bad scraps goin’ down. I don’t know what yet.”

“Is everything alright?”

“‘M sure everythin’ll be fine. I’ll comeback wit dessert.”

Jazz kissed Prowl’s mouth and slipped out of the berthroom. Prowl drifted back off to recharge. Sometime later, he stirred again, and this time, Prowl sat up. As Jazz had promised, there was a cube of pressed energon in a sealed cube sitting on the berthside table next to him. He uncapped in and took a sip. It was just a slightly different flavour that what Prowl brewed. Somehow Jazz had managed to brew it strong like Prowl liked, but with a better flavour. There was just a hint of spice. Shuffling back, Prowl lounged against the pillows as he slowly sipped his fuel. They had not planned for Jazz to get called away. They had planned to spend the entire mega-cycle tangled up together, but they could make up for the lost time. This was not a came anymore. There was no narrow window within which they would share pleasure. No, this was forever. They had the rest of their lives to enjoy each other.

A ping at the door surprised Prowl. He knew they were not expecting guests. Perhaps Jazz had said a courier. Or perhaps some friend of Jazz’s had sent a gift. There were telltale scrapes on his chassis, advertising to anyone who saw that he had merged recently. Prowl had no time to sand them off and repaint his chassis before he answered the door. In any case, he did not want to sand them off. No, he wanted them to stay as long as his self-repair systems allowed. There was enough time, there had to be, for Prowl to wipe the paint transfers over his midsection, and any mechfluids Jazz might have missed. The visitor pinged again, and then again, and Prowl frowned as he tossed the polishing cloth he was using into the trash. What could be so urgent? His fuel tank clenched as Prowl approached the door. When he looked through the peephole, he saw a stranger with enforcer decals. What could this be about.

“Hello,” he said when he opened the door.

“You are Prowl of Petrex?” The enforcer said.

“I am.”

“Can I come inside?”

“What do you need.”

“I think it would be better if we spoke inside.” Prowl took a step back and let the enforcer in. Though the enforcer suggested he sit down, Prowl did not move from the hallway. His spark was pulsing violently in his chassis. In his helm he repeated a mantra. No. No. No.

“You’re bonded to Jazz of Staniz.”

“As of last mega-cycle.”

“I regret to inform you there was an incident at his studio. There was an explosion. Unfortunately Jazz was caught in it with his brother and uncle.”

“No.”

“I’m so sorry to tell you that all three passed away.”

“No.”

Prowl fell to the floor and covered his helm with his arms. The enforcer was still talking, but Prowl did not hear a glyph. A shrill keen deafened him. Only later would Prowl realize it had been his.


	28. Wake

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hurry up, Jazz or you're going to miss your own funeral.

The next mega-cycle was a murky blurr. Enforcer Wheelarch had summoned medic after delivering his horrific news. Prowl did not remember the medic’s designation, but he remembered he had sad optics and a gentle touch. He had given Prowl something, some kind of a sedative and Prowl had sunk beneath the grief for joors. When he had still been unable, and perhaps unwilling, to rise from their berth, someone had brought energon to him, and held the cube to his mouth and cajoled him into drinking. Only when bitter clarity had returned to Prowl’s processor had he recognized that the mech caring for him was Barricade, and s optics could focus on his cousin, Prowl burst into frame wracking sobs. His cousin held him long after his frame stopped shaking. He could not rise from the berth; Prowl collapsed the instant he tried to stand. If not for Barricade Prowl would have curled up on the floor, to live or die as nature intended, but his cousin lifted him up, and tucked him back into berth.

Barricade was his guardian. He took control of Prowl’s comm, and rejected any would be well-wishers. Jazz may have been well loved by so many, but Prowl could not hear them right now. Prowl could hardly hold up his helm. Less that twenty joor after his bonding, he had been widowed and it was agony. Since their game had become, Jazz had been the brightest spot in Prowl’s life, and without him there was nothing but darkness. There was no relief from it; Prowl did not even crash. His tactic systems did not engage as his emotional cortex commanded all the processing power he had. It was impossible to think. All Prowl could do was feel, and it was a waking memory purge. Someone commed him, and Prowl heard Barricade begrudgingly agree to allow them up.

“Mirage says he needs to talk to you,” Barricade explained when he severed the commlink. “He insisted it had to be now.”

“Okay,” Prowl said. He had not idea what Mirage could want. The noblemech had hosted their reception. Tears flowed freely from Prowl’s optics as he shuddered with a sob. He did not want to see him.

“Cam’s pretty engrossed in his cartoon,” Barricade said as he stroked Prowl’s back. “I’ll chase the mech off when you’ve had enough.”

“I already have,” Prowl replied. “But if it is important. Maybe I have to bear it.”

“I won’t leave you,” Barricade promised.

Mirage arrived shortly after Barricade had informed Prowl he would be coming.For all it should have humiliated to be seen propped up on pillows, unable to drag himself out of his berth, Prowl could not bring himself to move. This was the last place he had been with Jazz. Jazz had kissed him here. Though he had not been certain how he could face the Towers mech, Prowl found some inner core of strength he would not have believed he had when he saw Mirage. The determination on his face plates, also etched with grief made Prowl wonder, and as his ATS gained a critical of power, Prowl was strong enough to listen. He was not alone, either. His servus was with him. Hound had been friendly and charming. Of course, Prowl had not paid much attention to him, or any of the guests. His focus had been entirely on Jazz. Like his heres, Hound had a look of determination and grief on his faceplates.

“I’m so sorry Prowl,” Mirage said as he stood at the end of the berth. “We’re going to find out who is responsible for this, and they will _suffer_ for it.”

“You are not an enforcer,” Prowl said. “What part are you playing in the investigation?”

“I am directing Prime’s investigation,” Mirage explained, and he looked over to Hound. “Prowl, Jazz was not just a fantastic performer, he was also a superb operative. Up until the murders resumed, he was Prime’s right servo. His department, our department are not going to leave this to the enforcers. We take care of our own.”

“Jazz was a spy?” Prowl asked, and he felt a little sick. Was he just part of _that_ game?

“More of a saboteur, and a conductor,” Mirage replied. “He wasn’t in Praxus for a mission. He quit Prime’s service. I suspect because he didn’t want to be bound by any of his rules.”

“Jazz preferred to make his own rules, and to bend those as frequently as possible as well.”

“That’s right. I need to know why he was at the studio. Why did he leave?”

“His manager commed him,” Prowl explained, and he comforted himself. Jazz would have told him eventually. He would have. “He said there was trouble.”

“That’s not possible,” Mirage replied, and his optics when wide and bright.

“Why?”

“Because I’m his manager, and I didn’t comm him.”

“What the frag is going on?” Barricade demanded as Prowl collapsed back into the pillows. His ATS surged as the ramifications of what Mirage had revealed could mean.

“You didn’t comm him but we know someone who could have tricked him using your voice.”

“Rewind,” Mirage hiss and his optics narrowed.

“He was the one who let the reporters in.”

“Jazz fired him as soon as that got out,” Hound said. “Jazz and Blaster, his creator and cassette-carrier, had been friends for vorns. Rewind had known Jazz since before he could have remembered. From what I understand, Blaster told Rewind to find his own way home, and his own place to live.”

“We need to speak to Blaster,” Mirage declared. “He might have kicked Rewind to the curb, but he’ll probably have a good idea where he is. Or Eject might.”

Murder/suicide. When Mirage and Hound spoke to Blaster, they discovered that the cassetticon they were hunting for was dead. Blaster had not seen his cassetticon creations remains, or found if there were any, but he had felt the bond snap and he knew with a certainty that Rewind was dead. Prowl felt blinding hate and blinding anger. What right had Rewind had to seek revenge? Whatever ruin he had suffered had been at his own servos, by his own greed. If anyone had deserved some kind of revenge, it had been Prowl. Now Rewind had stolen something dearer from Prowl that his future, he had stolen Jazz. There had been no bond to snap. Praxian did not bond sparks, but Prowl would have. When had had felt certain and safe, he would have. Rewind had stolen that from him too. Rewind had stolen everything that Prowl had ever valued. Now there was nothing left but hatred and grief.

“What are you doing here?” Prowl heard Barricade shouting from his berth. It dragged him out of his fugue, and he slowly sat up. He did not hear the answer. But Prowl heard Barricade shout again. “You didn’t come here to comfort him so you can go back to fragging Praxus and rot with the rest of your rusted excuse for a family.”

The door slammed, and nanokliks later, Barricade appeared with a confused Camshaft in his arms. Prowl opened his arms to the mechling who dove in for a hug. Camshaft was still too young to fully understand death. But he understood that Jazz had gone away, and Prowl was hurting. Nothing truly comforted him, but the mechling came closest. He was grateful for Camshaft’s presence, he was grateful for Barricade. Prowl watched over Camshaft’s shoulder as Barricade went to the window and stared down at the street for a time.

“Who was that?”

“Windbreaker.”

“He likely came to see if I had now seen reason.”

“Probably. He wasn’t here for you. So he isn’t going to see you.”

“Thank you, Barricade. I would be lost without you.”

“No one should go through this scrap alone,” Barricade declared. “We’re here for you. For as long as you need us.”

Some shared remains of sentio-metallico had been found. Prowl stared at the small, delicately etched, chest that held all what remained of three mechs. It seemed incomprehensible that three gregarious mechs, whose energies had seemed larger than any frame could be expected to contain, could be held within such small a chest. He was not sobbing anymore. A heavy numbness had fallen over him. He sat in front of the chapel, staring at the chest, his cousin’s arm around him. Silent tears stained his faceplates, but Prowl’s mouth was set in a flat line. Prowl leaned on Barricade. What could he have done without his cousin. Barricade was a protective originator, but he had entrusted Camshaft with the sparkling centre Prime had in place for his staff, so that he could be with Prowl now. For this, and for everything, Prowl would be forever grateful.

“I’m sorry,” Mirage said.

He had been sitting next to Prowl, opposite of Barricade, now he was standing. Prowl looked away from the chest containing all that remained of his love, and watched Mirage run from the chapel. There were gasps at his back. Every seat within the chapel had been filled. More mechanisms were standing in the back. Jazz had been well loved. Still, Prowl could find no comfort in this. Though he heard a grumble from somewhere behind him, he understood that Mirage and Jazz had been as close as brothers. If he could not bear to sit through another psalm, Prowl could not fault him. This service was no comfort to Prowl. The glyphs of tribute were not a solace. He was Jazz’s Conjunx, he had been... it was his duty to be here.

“Jazz was an exemplary mech,” Prime declared as he stood in front of Prowl, as he closed the funeral. “We were all lucky to have known him.”

Prime placed a medal in Prowl’s servo, and saluted him. The Novic Medal for Outstanding Valour, posthumously awarded to Jazz. As Jazz’s widow, it was Prowl’s to carry. He did not want it. Prowl did not believe Jazz would have wanted it. Everything he had ever done, had been following his own code. Even after Prime had retreated, and the chapel had cleared, Prowl remained. His servo was curled around the medal as he stared at the chest. There was no closure. It would be quartexes yet before Prowl could know with any certainty if he was or was not carrying. It would be quartexes yet before Prowl learned if he had any reason left to live for.

***

Every burned. Sometimes they scratched their tainted blades against Jazz’s plating. Sometimes they scratched them again his twin or his uncle. They seemed to be playing about, deciding what tortured Jazz more, his own pain or the pain of his kin. Their suffering was his fault, these Praxian told him, each time they cut until Ricochet or Punch screamed. Of the three of them, Punch was in the worst shape, he did not scream easily. Though Jazz was their true target, it wounded their pride that a feral little Polihexian could be stronger than them. For the thousandth time, Jazz  tested the cuffs. They were enforcer issue, and that had not been an accident. It was harder to crack the encryption wearing the damn things but not impossible. As Prowl’s originator took personal pleasure in torturing Punch as Jazz was helpless to do nothing but hang by his wrist and watch, he felt the cuffs release, felt himself slip.  Punch screamed, distracting Templar from Jazz, and covering up the hiss of the cuffs.  It was self-inflicted torture to cuff himsel f again, but in an act of acrobatics, and with the help of his magnets, Jazz sealed the cuffs overs his wrists. Now he knew the encryption. Now he had to wait.

It was a living Pit watching as Templar was emboldened, maybe even aroused by Punch’s screams, and duck the blade deeper as it scored his chassis so much deeper. Ricochet cursed the sick slagtard, and Templar was distracted from his present prey. As Ricochet called him every filthy curse in his repertoire, Templar stalked over and quickly stabbed the knife into Ricochet’s side. Jazz snarled as Ricochet gasped in shock and pain. It was getting worse, the torture. Though it was Templar’s turn at the moment, multiple different mechs had taken turns “educating” the Polihexians. As they had endured the torture, they had also learned that  Ephemeris  had not been working alone. He was part of a Functionalist Cult that demanded mechanisms not only serve the specific functions their precise alt-modes demanded, but also believed in the superiority of individual frameypes with Praxians being above all. The mixing of frametypes was an insult in their optics, and a sin. How could these mechanisms be related to Prowl. How could Templar have carried him?

“Enough of that,” Windbreaker returned. The mech tossed him doorwings as he walked, a funny flourish, Jazz thought was singularly arrogant. “You’re disappointing, Templar. Where is your restraint. Their education is but the beginning, remember?”

“Apologies, Originator,” Templar hissed and he stepped away from Ricochet. Though the wound leaked, it was ultimately a minor wound. Though to Ricochet, it probably did not feel all that minor. “You did not bring Prowl?”

“Barricade prevented me from seeing him. It appears your nephew is playing watchdog.”

“I did not know Prowl associated with that reprobate,” Templar sneered.

“At least Sideways was Praxian. Your creation is the greater degenerate.”

“How will be get around Barricade?” Templar asked. He did not speak up in Prowl’s defence. It was not all that surprising.

“Eronus will see to him. I have something I wish to confirm. I expect your Conjunx Endura to be waiting to retrieve Prowl at my command.”

“Of course, Originator.”

Windbreaker, the High Priest of this insane cult stalked over to Prowl, as perfect an image of Unicron as Jazz had ever seen. Jazz did not have to  wait long to see what he was after. He sank his talons into Jazz chassis and forced the Polihexian armour to split. Jazz gasped with shock and pain. His spark chamber was suddenly bared and for a moment Jazz resisted the freak’s will, but those talons dragged over his spark chambers, carving pain scratches into the delicate casing. Jazz had no choice but to bare his spark to the monster who had orchestrated his originator’s murder. Crosscut’s kin had paid Windbreaker to see the matter of their creation’s bastard settled. Windbreaker had often settled these matters with bribes or by arranging false criminal charges and arrests, but for the worst cases, he had decreed only death would suit the sin. Ephemeris had been his lackey, his killer. The deaths had never been quick, because Ephemeris was obsessed with timing and ritual. He had joined their cult only after killing the first three of his victims. Windbreaker had recruited him specifically for his ability to conceal his involvement in the crime. There had been other murders, by other monsters, but Jazz had not learned their designations yet.

“Get yer servos off o’ ‘m!” Punch screamed as Windbreaker seized Jazz’s spark in his claws. Jazz could not speak. He could not ventilate. It was the single greatest defilement he had ever known.

“Just as I thought,” Windbreaker sneered as he released Jazz’s spark. “Templar, your creation is the worst kind of aberration.”

“Not a sparkbond!”

“Yes! To this filth no less. I don’t care if Eronus guts Barricade in front of his worthless bastard. I want Prowl here, now! He will know the price for his deviance.”

“Ya ain’t layin’ a digit on Prowl,” Jazz hissed. Windbreaker sank his talons into Jazz’s face.

“What do you think you can do to stop me?”

“This,” Jazz only spoke the glyph as he escaped the cuffs and jammed the stiletto he had hidden in behind a panel in his arm under Windbreaker’s chassis.

When he felt it breech the slagtard’s spark chamber, Jazz twisted the blade and he fell on top of Windbreaker as he fell back with a startled gasp, his spark guttering before he hit the ground. Jazz broke free from the corpse as Templar shrieked with outrage, but the shriek died quickly, and Templar fell on his face, a long blade sticking out of his back. Punch stepped on his greying frame and wrenched his dagger free before slipping it back in its sheath in his leg. They had searched the Polihexians’ subspaces for weapons, but they had not searched their frames themselves. Jazz supposed they had never faced assassins before. Punch limped badly as he went to Ricochet, and quickly freed his nephew. 

They had no comms. The cultists had destroyed them. Windbreaker had taken pleasure in dissecting the one Jazz had carefully programmed for only him and Prowl to share. There was no way to warn Prowl and Barricade of the incoming danger. The only blessing was that those freaks would not know what had passed here. These Functionalists did not believe in sparkbonds, they saw them as weaknesses. When their creations emerged, they cut the bonds they had formed in the forge the very moment they unfurled. Few survived the shock, it was considered a right of passion, a sign of worth. Jazz understood now why just a little consideration and care had such a powerful effect on Prowl. He had been denied love from the very beginning of his existence. These monsters would not touch him again. They would not hurt Barricade’s sweet little mechling.

“We have to stop’em,” Jazz said. 

“We will,” Punch promised.

They staggered into the streets, and Jazz was momentarily struck dumb when he recognized the street. This was not Praxus. The warehouse that had served as their dungeon for mega-cycles was off docks in Iacon. For a moment, he felt relief, but it faded in an instant. Prowl was in imminent danger. He had no benefit of time or distance. Damaged as he was, Jazz could not transformed, though he tried. Just looking at his kin, Jazz knew they were even worse off.  These streets were quiet, generally only used by Convoys picking or delivering their loads to and from the dock. The nearest main street was blocks away, straight up hill. Jazz could not imagine making it up there in his present state, but he could not let Prowl down. Just as he was contemplating how to demand the impossible from his frame, a Convoy rolled up and slammed on his breaks.

“Jazz!” 

“Big Hauler!” Jazz exclaimed. Wonder of wonder. It was one of the Convoys responsible with delivering to the Palace.

“How?” The Convoy gasped and he transformed. “You... You look like you’ve been dug out of the Pit.”

“‘Bout right,” Jazz replied. “Don’t suppose ya can take me home?”

“Home, where I’m taking you is Ratchet!”

“Can’t. I gotta get to Prowl. He’s in danger.”

“Your lucky their in the same place.”

“How?”

“It’s your funeral this light-cycle... Right now. I took the route from Big Bang so he could attend. Can’t say I like funerals.”

“Funeral...”

“Murder/suicide. They’ve been thinking Rewind did you in for firing him.”

“He certainly didn’t help,” Jazz grumbled. “Get me to the funeral. I gotta take care o’ Prowl.”

“Maybe you outta stop at the medbay...”

“No!”

“Don’t argue wit ‘m,” Punch ordered. “He ain’t reasonable to begin wit.”

“What’s going on?”

“Some deranged Praxians took offence to me bonding to Prowl. We finally got away, but there’s some still loose and their after my Conjunx and his cousin.”

“Lucky for you I hadn’t picked up my load,” Big Hauler declared. “Get in, let’s book it!”

The raise to the Palace was hell. Big Hauler paid no attention at all to traffic laws as he whipped up the long hill to the Palace. There was nothing in Jazz’s subspace he could use to patch himself or his twin and uncle. It was frustrating, but there was nothing to be done for it. If they ran into those Praxians, Jazz still had a few tricks left, though he was down to the bottom of the barrel. Jazz guessed when they had arrived at the Palace, Big Hauler had no choice but to stop for the Primal Vanguard. As they sat in his trailer Jazz started to grow more and more tense. He was ready to leap out of Big Hauler’s hold when the Convoy suddenly sped on. When the trailer’s doors open, after they parked a final time, Jazz was met by familiar faceplates.

“What in the name of Primus happened to you?” Mirage demanded.

“I got in-laws from the Pit,” Jazz replied. “Where’s Prowl? Don’t tell me yer skippin’ my funeral, Raj?”

“I was lending support to your Conjunx when my comm wouldn’t stop buzzing,” Mirage explained. “Let us help you to the medbay. I’ll bring Prowl to you.”

“No, I gotta see’m now. His ‘genitor’s comin’ for ‘m. I can’t let’m take Prowl. Someone’s gotta get Barricade and the mechlin’ to safety... His originator’s comin’ for’em, ‘n they mentioned cuttin’m.”

“They wouldn’t get passed the Vanguard,” Mirage replied. “Barricade is with Prowl. Camshaft is in the sparkling centre. Be sensible, Jazz.”

“No.”

“Fragging Pit, you are a pain in the aft. Hound, help Ricochet and Punch to the medbay. I’ll with Jazz shortly.”

“If you don’t, I’ll sic Ratchet on him,” Hound promised.

The lobby of the chapel was empty, and quiet. Jazz turned his helm from side to side, looking for danger. Mirage grumbled about his stupidity, but he did not care. Before he could rest, even for a nanoklik, Jazz needed to make sure Prowl was okay. Prowl was the only thing that mattere d. Still cursing him, Mirage forced the chapel door open with his shoulder and dragged Jazz in. The room was empty, save for two mechs huddled together in the front row.

“Only you would miss your own funeral,” Mirage declared.

“Prowl!” Jazz exclaimed. He tried to run for him but fell to his knees. The figures turned around. Jazz saw doorwings jerk up. For a nanoklik, Prowl just stared. “Prowl!”

“Jazz!” Prowl broke from his stupor and ran to chassis. “Prims! Jazz!”

“Prowl,” Jazz wrapped his arms around Prowl’s neck as soon as his made dropped to the floor next to him. “Y’re safe.”

“Jazz,” Prowl shuddered as he spoke his designation. His servos ghosted down Jazz’s back. “You need a medic.”

“I had to see ya first,” Jazz replied, and he held to Prowl as if his life depended on it. “Windbreaker sicced yer ‘genitor on ya. He sicced yer uncle on Barricade.”

“What the frag does Windbreaker have to do with this slag?” Barricade asked as he jogged up. 

“He was behind it. All of it. Their part of some... cult.”

“They are fervent Functionalists,” Prowl replied. “It was once the mainstream religion in Praxus. It is still practised extensively through the state, but they are... particularly ardent.”

“They’re dead,” Jazz said. “Windbreaker ‘n Templar... Frag all the others will be in the wind when they find ‘em slagged.”

“They tortured you.”

“For defilin' ya. For standin' up for ya. They killed my origin, or at least they sent their mad dog after’m, and all the others. They been doin’ it for vorns. Sendin’ madmech out to kill anyone they didn’t think had committed some unforgivable sin. Drug addicts. Homeless bots.”

“Primus. I investigated many murders of such mechanisms,” Prowl said. “Most of my time in metaforensics, in fact. No one I arrested ever hinted to being hired goons.”

“I should be more surprised by this then I am,” Barricade said. “Windbreaker led the family like it a congregation, and he was the Voice of God.”

The last of Jazz’s reserves were spent. He could not so much as stand now.  B arricade and Prowl carried his to the medbay. Ratchet was waiting, looking to be already out of patience him. Jazz smiled at him, though it hurt his marred cheekplates. Throughout his repairs, Prowl remained nearby. Mirage and Hound disappeared, Jazz’s part in this was done, there’s had only begun. There was a chance some of the cultists would live to see trial, but there were equally good odds that they would give his friends reason to kill them. Mirage was much more a spy than an assassin but he had lines he did not allow mechanisms to cross without consequences. Jazz thought membership in a cult of serial killers was probably one of those lines. He did not care. If any of them lived to escape to Praxus, that would be for Prime to deal with. 

Jazz sulked, and he pouted, and he cajoled until he convinced Ratchet to allow Prowl onto the bedberth with him. Or was it Prowl’s pleading look and limp doorwings that had convinced him? Prowl was perfectly sweet, and perfectly careful, and he curled up into Jazz’s side. His digits traced the fresh welds that marred much of Jazz’s frame. There was no pain. A combination of good repairs, and even better pain blockers. As Prowl’s digits traced the claw shaped welds over Jazz’s chassis, Jazz covered his servo with his own, and held it to his chassis. 

“He was gonna make ya beg for my life,” Jazz said. “‘N then he was gonna kill me anyways to teach ya the consequences o’ bondin’ outside yer own kind.”

“I would have begged,” Prowl replied, and he shuddered. “I would have begged until my vocalizer shut off. I have been trying to think of how I was meant to live without you. I had not found any satisfactory answer.”

“I didn’t realize ya’d be thinkin’ I was dead,” Jazz replied. “I didn’t realize ya didn’t know we’d made a bond between our sparks.”

“I thought it was conscious work. I did not think a merge alone could do it. They were not part of my interfacial education, as you might imagine.”

“I realize that. I understand why y’re always so surprised when ‘m sweet to ya. They didn’t believe in love.”

“One of their beliefs was that love and lust were the downfall of the original thirteen Primes, and the paradise that prehistory Cybertron is imagined to have been. Legal bonds are strictly for procreation. Interface is for a perhaps, not a pleasure. The rod is spared, not the sparkling.”

“It’s hard to believe someone so sweet as ya could’ve come outta that.”

“I am not sweet.”

“Y’re the sweetest thing I ever tasted.”

“Jazz!”


	29. Speech

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A short snippet of Jazz and Prowl bonding with Bluestreak after their miraculous reunion.

Bluestreak did not tolerate separation, not merely from Prowl but from Jazz as well. The sparkbond that had snapped into place the very moment Prowl had held him had been replicated in Jazz’s spark as well. Though the mechling had no concept of procreators, or even love, he intuitively knew Prowl and Jazz were his, and he fussed whenever they stepped out of his line of side. Ratchet did not appear concerned by this separation anxiety. It would have been normal in a newling, and Bluestreak may as well have been one, for all his sparkling frame. As his bonds settled, as time passed, he would grow more confident in their permanency. For the moment he did not know that they would come back, and so he became distraught when he thought either of them had gone away. He would learn.

There was so much for him to learn, but as Prowl watched his optics sparkle as he studied the toys Arcee had brought for him, Prowl was certain he would learn. He did not want to hear about what ifs and worst case scenarios. Prowl believed Bluestreak would learn, and grow.  His potential was unlimited. Just this last mega-cycle, Bluestreak had learned to smile, and his innocent grin melted Prowl’s spark. He chirped and cheeped at his procreators. It was not binary, but something entirely his own, which only made sense. Bluestreak chirped almost constantly. Sweet, nonsensical  babbling that captured Prowl’s whole attention. Somewhere in the babbling, Prowl believed he would find the first thread of language. Though he would not understand the concept of siblings or carryings, Bluestreak was fascinated by Prowl’s forge and he spent a great deal of time cuddling it, and kissing it. He had already gotten better at giving innocent little kisses.

Within Prowl, his newspark stretched towards his brother. Bluestreak made a little sound as he felt the movement under his servos  and pressed his cheek against Prowl’s protoform. Prowl hummed with pleasure as he felt his newpark press up against his forge, against Bluestreak’s cheek .  They were bonding before this one could even emerge and it gave him so much pleasure. Jazz chuckled at nuzzled Prowl’s neck as he watched Bluestreak make little coos at Prowl’s belly. Even if Bluestreak did not know what love was, he felt it, and it gave both of his procreators so much joy. 

“I have to go ‘n see if Uncle Raj found a good home for us,” Jazz told the sparkling as he stroked Bluestreak’s back. “I’ll be back before ya know it.”

Bluestreak seemed to understand something of what Jazz had said because he looked forlornly to the door before Jazz even got up from their massive berth. Prowl kissed his bondmate goodbye, and lifted Bluestreak up, so he could hold his creation to his chassis. He did not truly wish to be parted from Jazz either, but they had lived separately all this time, afraid of being discovered. They needed a habsuite that would hold their comfortable hold their growing family, someplace to truly call home. Mirage, Jazz’s lieutenant within Special Operations, had volunteered to do the leg work for them. As a seasoned spy, he possessed much of the same need for security as Jazz and Prowl did. If he believed the habsuite he had found was perfect for them, it likely.

“Genitor will be back soon,” Prowl promised as Bluestreak whimpered against his chassis. “We will be strong while we wait for him.”

He felt his creation nuzzle him, and thought it might have been a nod.  No, it had been a node. Prowl smiled as he kissed his creations small helm. Bluestreak was learning, and he was learning so quickly. Though he felt secure in the medbay, in the base, more secure than he had felt anywhere but Doradus, Prowl did not enjoy being without Jazz. Some of Bluestreak’s separation anxiety may well have been a result of Prowl being unable to fully smother his own anxiety. Instead of dwelling on this, Prowl turned onto his side and laid down with Bluestreak, and covered them both with the thick blanket Ratchet had given them. With Jazz’s return, Prowl’s systems had largely stabilized, but he still preferred to be wrapped up in blankets then without. Ratchet suggested he was nesting. It seemed like a little bit of a ridiculous notion, but in the back of his processor Prowl was making plans to gather as many blankets and pillows as he could defend buying. Perhaps he was nesting.

“While we wait for Genitor, I am going to tell you a story,” Prowl declared as his creation nuzzled his face with his own. “You see, your Genitor is something very special, and he is from a very special place...”

Prowl doubted Bluestreak had inherited Jazz’s triplechanger ability. Even if he had been left to grow in Prowl’s forge, there had only been a 50% chance of of him inheriting his progenitor primary mermech form, but given Jhiaxus’ interference, it was unlikely that this frame was even the only Prowl’s forge had been building for him. That would not hinder him. Doradus would love Bluestreak when they had the opportunity to introduce them. As comfortable as Prowl had become with Ratchet as his medic, he wanted to go home to give emergence.  Funny how he felt the need to return to the see, when it was Jazz who had emerged there.

“We will take you there, when Ratchet allows it. When it is safe to do so. Doradus is a beautiful place, and a beautiful being.”

“Who’s beautiful?” Jazz asked as he sauntered into the room.

“Gee! Gee!” Bluestreak shrieked with delight and sat up. He stretched his arms out to Jazz.

“Gee?” Jazz asked. Prowl felt a thrill in his spark.

“Bluestreak, who is that?” Prowl asked and he pointed to Jazz.

“GeeGee!” Bluestreak replied. “GeeGee!”

“That’s right, bitlet,” Jazz crooned and he lifted Bluestreak into his arms and rocked him gently from side to side. “‘M GeeGee.”

“He is learning,” Prowl exclaimed, tears of joy welled in his optics.

“He’s gonna ‘m all away,” Jazz replied and he kissed both of Bluestreak’s cheeks. “Were ya good for your origin, Bitty Blue?”

“Uh oh.” Bluestreak replied.

“Uh oh?” Jazz asked. “You been makin’ trouble?”

“Oh. Oh! Bluestreak repeated and he pointed to Prowl. Oh Oh!”

“Oh Oh. I get it,” Jazz grinned from audial horn to audial horn. “Ain’t ya just a miracle bitty? Ya have a good cuddle with Oh Oh?”

“Ah ha.”

“My cleverspark,” Prowl cooed as Jazz placed Bluestreak in his arms. My wonder.”


	30. Sibling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bluestreak continues to astound every one, and the newspark is named.

As soon as Bluestreak had understood that he was being understood, he gained more and more language at an astounding pace. His glyphs became clearer. En became en gen became energon. He said please and thank you. Ratchet was astounded by the speed with which he picked up knew glyphs, and he found himself on the wrong side of Prowl and Jazz both when he curse upon dropping a wrench on his ped, and Bluestreak immediately started parroting him. Rather than punish their mechling, who had no way to understand the concept of rude glyphs, Prowl and Jazz just encouraged him to learn more and more. Bluestreak did not let them down. He could not have.

Bluestreak delighted in the attention this language learning garnered him, and as they, the three of them together, toured the habsuite Mirage had found for them, Bluestreak pointed to different pieces of furniture and technology and named them off. It would not belong before Bluestreak had caught up with his physical age mates. There was a great deal of uncertainty as to what to do about Bluestreak’s education. While his physcial frame was that of a late first tier sparkling, his processor had considerable catching up to do. Could they use language as the gauge to decide his readiness? Or were there more important parameters to consider. Prowl wondered if he could trust a school, even those with the qualifications to teach special needs sparklings, to educate and care for his creation. Though Jhiaxus was dead, and Zeta too, Prowl found it impossible to seriously consider letting Bluestreak out of his sight for joors of the mega-cycle. His leave had become indefinite, by Ratchet’s degree. Bluestreak was not ready to be thrust into the education system, and Prowl was not ready to be separate from the creation that had been stolen from his forge.

“What do ya think?” Jazz asked as he completed the tour. Mirage had found the habsuite for them, but Jazz had made it into a home. There was a beautiful berthroom for their little mechling, filled with toys and trinkets, and a strong and sturdy berth. It would be a while yet before Bluestreak used it. He had never once deigned to use the cot in the medbay. Bluestreak recharged with his procreators. When he was ready to recharge on his own, he would. However long it took. Arcee had gifted their mechling at least half of the hoard displayed on the shelves. She too had been a victim of Jhiaxus, and she had a soft spark for Bluestreak. As far as Jazz and Prowl were concerned she was an honourary aunt.

“It reminds me of you habsuite in Doradus,” Prowl replied. Down to the soft, textured paint of the walls, and the crystal lights hanging from the ceiling, their habsuite could have been pulled straight up from the sea. “It is perfect.”

“Ain’t showed ya the best room yet,” Jazz declared. Prowl cocked his helm, and Bluestreak mirrored his movement, Jazz laughed.

He led them to the master berthroom, and opened the door with a bright smile, and as soon as Prowl looked inside, he understood why. At the centre of the room there was a berth, or there must have been but you could not have hoped to find it under the scores of pillows and layers of thick blankets. Prowl spark flared with adoration and he kissed Jazz soundly. Perhaps it was a consequence of those quartexes spend hiding in that hellish basement, but Prowl craved comfort and warmth, and he was happiest when he was wrapped up in blankets. Prowl was especially happy when Jazz and Bluestreak were cuddled up with him.

“You must have been teased terribly for buying all of this,” Prowl said as he stroke his servo over the top most microfibre comforter.

“I told the clerk I was buying ‘em for my gorgeous, gravid sparkmate, ‘n she told me to buy ten more. So I did. Got enough that ya can cover the couch too if ya wanna.”

“You spoil me.”

“I cherish ya.”

Prowl carried Bluestreak to the berth and sat him down on it. His creation made a long and happy coo and stretched out on his belly, servos running over the soft blanket. Jazz kissed his cheek and told him he was just like his ori, his visor twinkled with mischief and mirth. The only response he got from Prowl was a little snort. He sat on the berth and, really the blanket was the softest Prowl had ever touched, and the massive of pillows and blankets beckoned him. Ratchet’s orders had been to continue resting. This was the halfsparked excuse Prowl gave himself as he pulled back a couple of layers of blankets and crawled under them. He sank into the berth, the pillows conforming perfectly to his frame. Prowl’s optics immediately dimmed with pleasure.

“Do ya need any more, Prowler?” Jazz asked.

“Not yet,” Prowl replied. “I would like company.”

“I could never say no to ya,” Jazz crooned and he slipped into the berth with Prowl. Bluestreak remained above the blankets. He in love with the texture. When he found Prowl’s forge, where the blankets smoothed over his rounded protoform, Bluestreak chittered with delight and hugged Prowl, and his bitlet brother.

“Okie,” Bluestreak said as he hugged Prowl’s forge.

“Okay?” Jazz asked.

“Okie,” Bluestreak repeated himself, and carefully enunciated. “M’okie.

“Smokey.”

They had been talking about designations, tell Bluestreak about all they wished for him and his brother. Prowl had been hoping that Bluestreak would find enough voice to help them choose the perfect one. He had. Smokey. Short for Smokescreen. Prowl got misty opticked as he smiled, and when he looked over to Jazz, he saw a similar expression on his sparkmate’s face. Some mega-cycle they would share this moment with the newspark. They would tell him how his brother had chosen his designation. As he echoed the designation Bluestreak had chosen, Prowl felt his newspark press up against his force, under Bluestreak, and he was certain this was Smokescreen trying to hug Bluestreak back.


	31. Surprise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> No seriously, the theme for this one is surprise.
> 
> We've come to the end of this year's insanity. I'm thinking of doing Kinktober. I might be out of my ever loving mind.
> 
> Prowl hears a call in his spark. It's time to come home.

When Prowl’s time grew close, they returned to the coast. This time they had an escort. Prime and Ratchet had both insisted on seeing them off, with Prime having outfitted his trailer with some comfortable benches to make the during easier. Prowl had long since stopped being able to transform. In fact, he had lost that ability more or less the same time he had sought shelter in the basement. The deactivation of his t-cog may have been part of his sub-conscious panic. It was far harder to escape a threat running on two peds rather than racing off on four wheels.

His and Jazz’s habsuite had served as a safe place to rest and to wait. It had been a safe place to love and to teach Bluestreak. He was a wondrous mechling, guileless and sweet. They had been taking him to the park nearby to their habsuite to get some experience interacting with other sparklings. For the most part, he enjoyed the company of younger mechlings that those matching his frame’s maturity. The processor was a complex and remarkable thing, and his was very much still developing. Bluestreak spoke very well, to the point he was rather precocious, but emotionally there was still maturing to do, and he would in good time. Ratchet had found a way to stop his frame from progressing towards the next upgrades so that Bluestreak’s processor could catch up with his frame. Their current plan was to keep Bluestreak “paused” for a few vorns at least. Sooner or later, one of his little friends’ procreators were bound to ask why Bluestreak’s physcial age had not changed. Perhaps, Prowl would be honest with them, but perhaps not it really was none of their business. He was not concerned about their judgment, Ratchet believed this course was best for all involved and Prowl had complete faith in the medics wisdom.

Prowl hoped Ratchet was not offended that he wanted/needed to go to Doradus to give emergence. He had been more than content to spent the last stellar-cycles of his carrying in Iacon, amongst the Autobots, and under Ratchet’s diligent care, but Prowl felt as if he was being called home, and the closer he came to his time, the louder that call became, and so he answered it. It was odd that he felt the call so clearly, but when he had expressed this wonder, Jazz had smiled at him knowingly. The call was not some instinctual programming commanding him to return to familiarity and “home”. It was not coming from within him, but to him. Doradus was calling him, them, home.

For now the war was far away. A simmering feud that would again ignite into terrible violence, but for now both sides were building up their alliances, and building up their stores. It was a good time to go home, and a good time to give emergence. Prime came to a slow, rolling stop. Ratchet had grumbled that he drove like a cautious newbuild, Prime had responded that he had precious cargo. Jazz had chuckled, and Prowl had found his lipplates curling up in a smile. The glyphs had been sincere. Optimus Prime had become more than a commander, or an alley in the last stellar-cycles of Prowl’s carrying, he had become his friend. It was a development that Prowl would never have predicted, and one he had not thought he had particularly wanted or needed, but Optimus Prime’s friendship was a boon.

“We’re just about home, Bitty Blue,” Jazz crooned to their sparkling who had been an absolutely darling the entire journey, largely spending the time cuddling up with his procreators and practising his reading by reading stories to Smokescreen. From the way Smokescreen moved with his forge, Prowl thought he could hear his brother talking to him.

“Doradus?” Bluestreak perked up. “I can meet him now?”

“Soon,” Jazz said. “He’s waitin’ for us.”

The sun shimmered over the red hued sea. Prowl stepped out of Prime’s trailer and onto the golden beach, alongside Jazz. They guided Bluestreak to the shore, each holding one of his small servos. With Prowl’s free servo, he cradled his forge. With Prime and Ratchet at their backs, they took their first steps into the see. Silver tendrils rose up to meet them. Doradus loosely wrapped a tendril around the trio as another brushed over their helms. In his helm, Prowl heard Doradus voice welcoming him home. The tendril brushed over his forge, and Prowl felt incandescent joy. Prowl watched with pleasure as Doradus brushed that tendril slowly over Bluestreak’s helm, and then slowly wrapped it around him. Though that tendril was not touching Prowl, he still felt Doradus’ jubilation at meeting Bluestreak, his grand-creation, of sorts. Jazz tapped his helm to the tendril that came up to greet him. This had been the longest time he had been away, and Prowl felt the broad tendril encircling them tremble. Doradus was pleased to have them home.

More tendrils rose from the see and beckoned Prime and Ratchet towards the sea. Optimus Prime bowed his helm to Doradus, and accepted the tendril’s embrace. He would be the first Prime Doradus had acknowledged since he had made his plunge into the sea. Prowl smiled at Optimus as the Prime seemed to flush with either embarrassment or pleasure. Ratchet was less enthusiastic towards Doradus’ greeting, but when Doradus touched a tendril to his helm and spoke into his processor, Ratchet made a startled intake. He shook off whatever had surprised him, and shrugged his shoulders. Of course. Ratchet had kept a clinic in the Dead End until the Decepticons had raised those slums to the ground and enlisted, enslaved or murdered the residents. Perhaps some of those residents could claim descendants from sparks who had emerged within Doradus walls.

“Ya been invited down,” Jazz said. “There’s a speaker waitin’ if ya wanna come along.”

“I may as well make sure Prowl gets himself a good medic to help him through the last phase,” Ratchet declared.

“Like ya’d settle for anyone but yerself,” Jazz replied. “Ya came this far after all.”

“Smart aft.”

“We would be honoured,” Prime replied.

“Then let’s see which speaker they sent.”

Jazz lifted Bluestreak and carried him on his hip as he walked deeper into the sea. Prowl followed. The blessing Jazz had once given him remained, and he could almost feel the nanites coming out of hibernation as he walked deeper into the Rust Sea. A mechanism came up from the deep, one Prowl had not met when he had first ventured to Doradus. It felt so long ago now. Jazz made no reaction, but walking up on Prowl’s right, Ratchet’s gasped with surpise. The Speaker, a pretty mech with sharp audial fins, grinned with unabashed delight.

“Ratchet.”

“Drift!” The medic gasped. “You... You were... You are.”

“I realized I wasn’t meant to be Deadlock,” Drift shrugged. “So I went home, for the first time in my life.”

“Doradus knows when to call a spark,” Jazz declared.

Prowl smiled, knowingly. Doradus did indeed know. He called only when he knew the spark was receptive to hear. The Blessing Drift gave Ratchet lingered longer than Prowl thought his had, though he had crashed all but the nanoklik he had felt Jazz’s lipplates on his, so he could have been mistaken. But he thought Drift lingered on it, and he thought Ratchet let him. From the chuckle Jazz made, Prowl suspected he was not wrong in his observation. Jazz kissed Bluestreak who giggled with delight. He loved kisses, though he did not understand the significance of this one. No Speaker came for Prime, Doradus tapped a tentacle against the armour above the Matrix.

“I understand,” Prime said.

They slipped into the sea. Doradus guided the landmech along by narrower tendrils. Drift twisted in the water, and transformed long legs into a longer tail. Ratchet looked a little startled. Prowl did not believe he was wrong in thinking Drift was showing off for Ratchet when he watched the mermech glide through the sea, just ahead and then back alongside of Ratchet. As Prowl held Bluestreak, Jazz transformed and with a flick of his powerful tail, he leapt out of the sea, and dove back down. Bluestreak shrieked with delight and wiggled in Prowl’s arms, and then he wiggled out of them. He reached out his servos for his progenitor as his legs merged into a tail. Jazz whooped with delight and took Bluestreak’s servos in his and spun around with him in the sea.

“Bitty Blue! Y're a mer after all!”


End file.
